
^ O ^ 

» O ^ 





t 1 1 


* • • • ' 



V'^TTo- ^i-- 

^ *■' 

vv • 


C^'^rs - 

'• . •. * ^c.'*- \ 

/•O^ «Li- ♦- 




4'^^' 


b V 




• <L^ O ^ 0 

A'' ^ • ,1 0 ? aO ^ 

^ ^ ^ ^ 2 aw A.V ♦L^rw'^ 



■' %. c . 

*. o« • 

« ^ ^ 

v' ,.•«. •% <)'i- .. 

• «-'^Va» ”^,S> ,' 

• r tv '^^m° • 

.“r ^ <?* '*• K >9 - 4 

,0^ \ -i<^ <*, '»•*• 









J’® « 



<S>- ♦ « - « 0 




V/ 



* C^ '^r% - 

.* -V '^ • '" 



o • * 





^ .0^ o ® " ® <» 

. c. o 

o< » 

<i5'^ 

<1 r ^ ' Cy ^ 

V V Q ^ ^ ^ f\ r^ 



\0 * 

4<£* W* 

0 d>^ * 













40 - 






*• • 


>• 


0 



if 


i 


'b 


\ 




T 


‘f. 


• « 


♦ » 
*« 



yp 








s. 





0 


I 













WILL ROOD’S FRIENDSHIP. 

* 


BY 

G-A-YLORU, 

|i 


AUTHOR OF 

“GILBERT STARR,” “GILBERT’S LAST SUMMER AT 
BAINFORD,” “boys AT DR. MURRAY’S,” ETC. 


BOSTON: 

GRAVES & YOUNG, 


No. 24 CORNHILL. 


FZ^ 

. G.13 

w 

1^47 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 
GRAVES & YOUNG, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 


Sl-l^^7a.¥ 


TO MY FBIENDS 


a-. W. B. and C. W. C., 

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED WITH MANY 


PLEASANT REMEMBRANCES 


. ? • 











v-; 




•I ' i 




I • •' 


‘ * V 


< ♦ . r 


. < 


< I 


’ 4 r 


>y» 








i; ^ tv’ ‘.•; ' .V ; 

V i. .. 


'<. ' 


V > 


4 r • 


• ^ 


I « 


• -'' *■ i: •■■* 


J- 







»• 




V, 


»4'. 


• < 


* 5 - *: 


* • 


“/ 


■ ■■- J r, 


I -* 


'.- fc r, ■. 

^ V > 




• • 


» i 




4 


* • 




,r^’ 



•f 




n w 



«» 

.» .1 


J 


• \ 


• < 


4 ». 


* 'L: 


. I ' - r 


• 






9 

^ •- 


•■ f ‘- - K. ■ 


in , ->? •• 

v-.y - " . . 

’ ■ r '* ■ ' 4 









.t :► 


i . 


• * 


f ’•'? v, 

I . .I'L ^ 







' 4. ' 4 * 

4 4 ".C'-. 




4 





CHAPTER I. 

On the Bars, . - - . . 

- . 9 

CHAPTER 11. 

Journeying, 


CHAPTER TIL 

Friends Indeed, ----- 


CHAPTER IV. 

The New Life, 

54 

CHAPTER V. 

The Shadow does not Lessen, 

70 

CHAPTER VI. 

From Trouble to Trouble, 

85 

CHAPTER YII. 

Will Rood’s Forgery, 

- 102 

CHAPTER YIII. 

A Thunderbolt from Clear Sky, - 

- - 118 


VI, 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER IX. 

Home, 133 

CHAPTER X. 

Telling His Story, 148 

CHAPTER XI. 

At the Rich Man’s House, - - - - - 162 

CHAPTER XIL 

Thoughts in the Night-Time, - - - - 177 

CHAPTER XIIL 

Looking for a Letter, - - - - 191 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Wayne’s Confession, ------ 207 

CHAPTER XV. 

Thanksgiving, 223 

CHAPTER XYL 

Taking Hope, 239 


WILL ROOD’S FRIENDSHIP. 


CHAPTER I. 

ON THE BARS. 

TjROTHER JONATHAN (they called him 
Johnny for short, but if he is to have 
his name in print it must be written out 
in full) seemed to have caught the gloom 
which had settled upon his master^s house- 
hold. He lay upon the doorstep in the 
Spring sunshine, looking very dejected. 
Though his master’s son, T^'ill Rood, was 
coming up the meadow-lot that sloped 
southward from the low old farm-house, 
whistling as merrily as possible. Brother 


10 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Jonathan did not wag his tail once, but 
looked at the boyish figure from out his 
brown eyes, and behaved as a dog should 
that knows his master’s first-born is about 
to leave the home-nest for — nobody knew 
how long. 

The whistler, as he came to the bar-way 
on the opposite side of the road from 
where Brother Jonathan was keeping staid 
watch of things in general, paused on the 
top bar to look around him for the last 
time for many months to come. The old 
farm-lands lay very bright and pleasant 
under the sun. The trees were just ting- 
ing themselves with green, and down in 
the orchard apple-trees the blue birds and 
robins were piping gleefully. In the far 
distance Farmer Kood was plowing his 
corn-land, and in the morning silence his 
voice floated dimly over to Will, as he gave 
commands to his oxen. Will had just come 


ON THE BARS. 


11 


from there after a last good-by. He looked 
back now, remembering what a kind, fond 
father he had — proud enough of him too, 
it was evident — and feeling his heart full 
of those high resolves that come to boys 
at times, and which came to Will very 
often, because he could not forget how this 
farmer-father of his had toiled late and 
early to keep him at the great boarding- 
school, down at Newland, those four long 
years. 

It had cost a great deal of money — this 
long stay at school — and it was what no 
other farmer in Burlingwood had done for 
his boys. This was why Farmer Rood's 
bank account, was not so prosperous as his 
brother farmers', and why he had to toil 
early and late, though his hair was getting 
gray. 

Deacon Wilcox and old Uncle Frisbie 
had actually felt it their duty to remon- 


12 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


strate about this eddicatin’ Will so much 
above the rest o’ our boys,” and advised 
brother Rood to keep his boy on the farm 
where he couldn’t run into evil and learn 
the ways of the wicked city. But Farmer 
Rood had answered — leaning on his hoe- 
handle and wiping the sweat off his brow, 
Will don’t take to farmin’ and don’t like 
nothin’ but book-lamin’, and book-larnin’ 
he shall have if it’s to be got out o’ this 
farm.” And “ book-larnin’ ” Will had had 
just as long as he would suffer his father 
to pay those great bills which came up 
every quarter from the boarding-school at 
Newland. But now it was over, and the 
burden was off the old farmer’s shoulders. 

All these things were in Will’s heart, as 
he sat on the top bar looking across the 
meadows to where the brown furrows were 
being turned up to the sun, and besides 
the remembrance of all this toil on his 


ON THE BARS. 


13 


parents^ part, there were plenty of resolu- 
tions there to do them honor where he was 
going, and to pay back as much as possible 
of thife great debt in gratefulness of well- 
doing. He was going to take care of him- 
self, now. This was an unspeakable delight 
and pleasure I He was going where he 
had, at least, one very kind friend and an 
opening to future success, and perhaps 
wealth, — something unusual for one so 
young; and sitting there in the sunlight, 
of course he built very splendid air-castles, 
just as all boys will and must J)ecause they 
can^t help it, and of course he saw the 
happy time ahead, when father and mother 
were to be kept in comfort by his earnings, 
and wee sister Mabel sent to school. Now 
you must know how Will Rood came to 
have^^is opening before him. 

About the middle of those four long 
school years, during one summer term. Will 


14 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


saved a life. They — all the boys of the 
great school — were bathing in the river 
off one side of the town. It was a warm, 
sleepy August noon, the river still and 
smooth as glass, locusts whirring in the 
great trees over the bank, and the boys 
making a great din and plashing in the 
shadowed water under. Suddenly some- 
body cried, “ Help ! help I ” and another 
voice shouted, “It’s Shirwyn, and he’s got 
the cramp ! Quick I quick I ” 

Will, who was well out from shore, looked 
over his shpulder and saw Shirwyn strug- 
gling near him. With the quick conscious- 
ness that comes with peril nigh, he saw that 
of all his comrades he was nearest, and that 
if Shirwyn was saved it was he who had got 
to do it. So, without any wavering, he 
struck out for his unfortunate comrade and 
was beside* him in a twinkling. 

Wayne Shirwyn, full of the terror of 


ON THE BARS. 


15 


death, had not sufficient coolness nor fore- 
thought to remember what he would have 
remembered at any other time, and so 
clasped his rescuer about, clinging as only 
the drowning can cling — thus drawing 
Will into the same danger with himself. 
But Will, with a stout heart, battled death 
for them both, and though nearly strangled, 
succeeded in keeping up till there was 
plenty of aid from the others. Now the 
two had never been friends — not because 
of any enmity, but for the reason that 
Wayne was a rich man’s son and had other 
associates, and Will belonged to another 
class, and knew little of the comrade he had 
rescued. 

But now this was all changed. Wayne 
Shirwyn was sensible enough to remember 
that wealth did not rank him one whit 
higher than his rescuer, and that he owed 
a debt of gratitude which all the money 


16 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


in the world could not pay. When it 
comes to the matter of drowning, gold 
loses its shine and beauty; and Wayne’s 
ducking put some very sensible and manly 
ideas in his head that were never there 
before. He was grateful — he felt it — and 
tried to tell half of it to Will. Will was 
cool, and told his rich friend that he should 
have done the same, just as soon, for 
the red-headed butcher’s boy — the pest of 
the whole school. For which Wayne liked 
his rescuer all the better, and did his best 
to make a friend of him, and though Will 
was shy and distant for a long time, perse- 
verance at last won the battle, and Will’s 
prejudice against rich men’s sons vanished, 
and they were excellent friends. 

The Shirwyns showed their gratitude in 
every letter that Wayne received from home. 
Wayne went up to Burlingwood, and spent 
a long Summer vacation, and got himself 


ON THE BARS. 


17 


as brown and burnt as Deacon Wilcoxes 
Zebulon, or Uncle Frisbie^s Samuel. They 
all liked him, from the prim deacon down 
to the roughest farm-boy in the village, 
and in some way or another he got him- 
self acquainted with nearly everybody in 
the town, and the old aunties and uncles 
and the farm-boys and farm-girls lost half 
their prejudice toward city-bred people — 
which is saying a good deal for Burling- 
wood folk. And when it came time for 
the two boys to return to books again, 
Wayne announced his intention of spending 
the next Summer’s vacation in the same 
manner, declaring it was the happiest six 
weeks of his life ; but before the winter 
was half gone, Wayne was called home 
from school to be placed under a private 
instructor in his own city, and so 
had to separate. 

This, however, did not end the friend- 


18 


WILD ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


ship, and seemed only to strengthen it. 
Letters went between the boarding-school 
and city, and Will had a standing invitation 
to visit his friend, and his friend^s parents, 
but never quite made up his mind to do 
so — thinking all the time of his father at 
work on the stony old farm, and of mother 
scrimping and saving — and kept at his 
books, bound to do as much in his four 
years as the rest of his comrades had 
marked out for five. And he did it. Then 
he went home from the head of his class 
with plenty of praises, looked upon as one 
who was to make his mark in the world. 
(Which is pretty much the way all boys 
are looked upon sometime in the course 
of their boyhood.) 

Now, hardly had he got back to the famil- 
iar sights and sounds of the sleepy old farm- 
ing town, when there came a letter from 
Wayne Shirwyn, enclosing one from his 


ON THE BARS. 


19 


father, in which that grateful gentleman of- 
fered Will a situation in his office which, 
if it pleased him, would open the way to 
future advancement. The work was to be 
mostly writing and Will, if he chose, would 
be welcomed into their family as one of 
them. Wayne^s letter begged that, “ if you 
haven’t got some profession picked out 
which you are going to strive for (and I 
don’t believe you have, for you’ve never 
hinted such a thing to me) do accept father’s 
offer. He’ll do splendidly by you, for I 
know just how he feels. He knows that 
but for you he wouldn’t now have me. We 
shall be rejoiced to see you — father, mother, 
Nina, Mother Bunch and all. And then 
\*re’ll have delightful times ! You won’t go 
to being a farmer after all that double work 
of yours ? Do accept,” ect., ect. 

The Roods could hardly believe their 
eyes. Their Will to have such a chance 


20 WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 

as this, and because of a little act done more 
than two years ago and which had nearly 
^aded from their memories ! 

He deserves it ! ” said the farmer, with 
honest pride j it isn’t every day they can 
get such a boy as our Will, for alJ they 
may have their pick. I’ve heern say the 
city got its best life out o’ the country ; the 
country givin’ to the city all the time to 
make its strong men and its workers, and 
when they get Will — ” Here Will himself 
entered and this selt-gratulating little speech 
was never finished. But, as boys run, I sus- 
pect they had some reason to be proud of 
him. 

In some way or another the news got out, 
and Deacon Wilcox came over post haste to 
know if it was really true that “ your son, 
brother Hood, is agoin’ into an office down 
to York, just as ef he’d had a masterin’ sight 
o’ experience ? ” 


ON THE BARS. 


21 


Brother Rood, with a little thrill of pride, 
replied as quietly as he might, that he did 
believe there was some prospect on’t.’^ 

Really,’^ said the deacon, “ your boy is 
mightily favored in worldly prospects. See 
to’t he don^t get into the wiles o^ Satan, 
brother Rood. Snares are thicker^n stone- 
heaps on your hill lot — spread out to catch 
the feet o’ our thoughtless youth. I feel 
as ef you was runnin’ a fearful resk, sister 
Rood — a dreadful resk.” 

“Will’s always had his mother’s prayers — 
and his father’s too, as for that matter — ” 
said placid mother Rood, “ and he’s been a 
good boy. I’ll say that for him. Husband 
nor I never had to take a hard word from 
him — never ! — and he’s worked hard at his 
books down there at school, — twice as hard 
as the rest, the principal told us, and — ” 

“ Wall, wall,” said the deacon, who could 
by no means say this of his Zebulon, “ I’ve 


22 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


nothin’ agin Will. He’s a likely boy, an’ I 
hope he’ll do credit to his bringin’ up an’ 
old Burlingwood. You may tell him that 
from me if you like, sister Rood. By the 
by, when does he leave town ? ” 

To-morrow morning, if all’s fair,” said 
the farmer ; “ they’re in a hurry for him 
down there, I believe.” There was no 
time for the deacon to listen further or say 
more, for here Zebulon came along with the 
ox-team. 

Now you have the whole story, and know 
why Will is going to the city, and what has 
called him ; and now, as he looks back over 
the meadows and orchard to the old man 
toiling in the corn-lot, do you wonder that 
his heart is full to overflowing of the truest 
and bravest resolves that ever enter into a 
generous, manly boy?s heart ? And do you 
wonder that these, resolutions brightened 
into the fairest of air-castles, wherein father 


ON THE BARS. 


23 


and patient mother, and sister Mab were 
to dwell in happy comfort? But the air- 
castles suddenly came down with a crash 
that took Will quite off the top of the bars. 
The cause of this sudden downfall was Mr. 
Thaddeus Upson^s stage-horn, and the sight 
of the big overgrown stage lumbering over 
the curve of the hill. Will ran in, and Mr. 
Thaddeus, having been previously notified, 
drew up before the gate where the trunk 
was standing. 



1 ^ 


CHAPTER II. 


JOURNEYING. 

•jlfR. THADDEUS UPSON had driven 
stage over this hilly, up-and-down road 
since he was a red-faced, shambling youth 
of twenty. Having now become a great 
burly man with whiskers inclined to gray- 
ness, he was of course familiar with every- 
thing and everybody along his route, and 
had grown, along with his years, to take 
an interest in the dwellers in the low-eaved 
farm-houses. In a certain sense they were 
like his own kin. He knew whose boys 
had turned out well and whose ill, back 
for the last twenty-five years. He could 
tell when widow Brown’s son broke his 


24 


JOURNEYING. 


25 


neck by falling backward off a load of hay, 
and when the meeting-house was struck by 
lightning, and when the great wind came 
that ravaged the orchards and spoiled the 
whole apple crop j and as for minor events 
there w*s no limit to the quantity which 
Mr. Thaddeus had stored in his head. He 
knew too, by some method of divination 
known only to himself^ that the passenger 
whose trunk he had just secured was going 
to enter upon a new life in the far-away 
city, and when Will came out with moth- 
er’s and Mabel’s kisses warm upon his cheek, 
and a suspicion of moisture in his eyes, 
Mr. Thaddeus silently thrust down one great 
red hand to assist his passenger up beside 
himself, and considerately forbore to speak. 
Then, with his usual “ All right I ” and a 
great crack of the whip, Mr. Thaddeus 
started on. 

Fair, sloping farm-lands, fresh brown fur- 


26 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


rows, orchards and robins, the toiler and 
his oxen, the old red house with Brother 
Jonathan standing forlornly at the gate, 
slipped slowly into dim distance, and when 
they were all shrouded in the blue Spring 
haze. Will turned his face forward to the 
journey and the new life before him. 
Then it was that Mr. Thaddeus lost his 
silence, and presently became so voluble 
that his passenger had enough to do to 
keep pace with his grave remarks and 
queries. 

At Sandplain, the railway station nearest 
Burlingwood, Will left his high perch, glad 
to change positions after his two hours’ 
ride, and not very sorry to be rid of his 
companion. Mr. Thaddeus, after bringing 
down the trunk, extended his hand, said, 
S’posed like enough he was shakin’ hands 
with a future governor or big railroad man 
or sumthin’,” and went on his way. 


JOURNEYING. 


27 


Sandplain was intersected by railways, 
and though only a village there was always 
a good deal of stir and bustle at its drab- 
colored station-house, which made the hour 
of waiting rather more endurable for Will. 
The waiting-room where he sat was almost 
empty, the gentlemen seeming to prefer the 
platform outside, so that his only compan- 
ions for the time were three or four red- 
visaged men who sat around the fireless 
stove, talking politics and laughing very 
loud. 

But Will was entirely unmindful of their 
conversation, his thoughts having all gone 
on before to the great city, Wayne, the 
new friends he was to find, and the new 
life he was to enter upon. By and by he 
became conscious of a slow tap, tap, tap 
upon the platform without, the sound draw- 
ing nearer till it paused at the door, was 
still till the door opened, and then there 


28 WILL rood’s friendship. 

entered — such a fragment of a man! Will 
gave an involuntary start at the sight of 
him. He could not have been over three 
feet high — Will doubted if he was that — 
and had crutches to aid him. A well-grown 
dog would have run over him. And such 
a face! — dried, wrinkled, yellow and sickly- 
looking. A rim of coarse sandy whiskers 
framed it in. On his head was a little 
old cap which was altogether the largest 
part of him. 

Will looked on with mingled pity for this 
poor atom of humanity, and sudden joy in 
his own healthy, perfect body. It had never 
occurred to him before that by any possi- 
bility his strong, active limbs might have 
been dwarfed and shriveled like this crea- 
ture’s. A sudden gratefulness kept him 
motionless, his eyes following the elfish 
figure as it went tapping over the floor to 
the opposite side of the room. Presently 


JOURNEYING. 


29 


this pigmy went under a table which stood 
in the corner, lifted the lid of a great box 
which was there, and much to Will’s aston- 
ishment, proceeded to take out peanuts, 
oranges, maple-sugar and many kinds of 
confectionery which he arranged on the 
wooden settee beside him. Then, after con- 
siderable exertion, he succeeded in climb- 
ing up beside them and there he sat — like 
some tiny, ill-visaged elf — waiting for cus- 
tomers. 

So this morsel of man earned a livelihood I 
Will looked down at his own hands, and 
with the warm color brightening his cheeks 
felt almost ashamed, somehow, that they 
had never earned a penny. If this dwarfed, 
crippled mite of man could earn his daily * 
bread and fight his way in the rough, over- 
bearing, careless world, it should go hard 
but his own perfect hands should earn 
enough for father and mother and Mab, 


30 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Will thought. That was one consolation 
he got in looking at the cripple. Then he 
walked across the room and became the 
dwarPs first customer by emptying his 
pocket-book of its pennies and postage 
stamps. Then he discovered that deafness 
was also added to the list of this man’s 
afflictions. 

But few customers appeared, till the train 
from Collinsville came down, and then the 
waiting-room was filled to overflowing. 
There were all kinds of faces, — faces that 
were merry and faces that were sorrowful ; 
aged faces contrasted with youthful ones ; 
faces that reflected pure hearts and faces 
grown hard and cunning from long associa- 
tion with evil. Bed faces beamed comforta- 
bly on sickly ones, and mild, kindly faces 
shone beside others that were almost dis- 
gusting. This crowd made a great buzz of 
talk. As it slowly surged about the room — 


JOUENEYING. 


31 


now backward, now forward — those on 
the outer edge would come in contact with 
this elfish dwarf. The first glance would 
hardly notice him, then would come a 
startled second look, and then they would 
eye him askance, saying to themselves, it 
was plain, What manner of man is this ? ” 
A red-whiskered, rough-looking fellow was 
his first customer, patronizing him out of 
pity, Will was sure, as he was plainly not 
a man with money to spare. A white- 
cravated clergyman was the next purchaser, 
and then the sales began to be rapid. Every 
one — smart, rough, pure, evil and all — 
bought lozenges, nuts or maple-sugar, giving 
this wee particle of their brother man a 
half-curious, half-pitying look as they made 
change. ^ 

Will had greater faith in men after th^t, 
discovering that there was more pity and 
kindliness in men’s hearts than he had 


32 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


dreamed of. Many a time after that his 
heart beat warmer and more hopefully, 
thinking of the dwarf and his motley crowd 
of friends. 

At this juncture . Will’s train came in, 
and he was soon speeding toward the 
great city. Familiar old Newland was soon 
reached, and here he caught a glimpse of 
friends’ faces, had a delightful five minutes’ 
talk with schoolmates, and went on his way 
with their good wishes and blessings making 
his heart very warm and glad. 

And when he was well settled for the 
long afternoon ride, thoughts which had 
been waiting all day for a leisure moment 
crowded fast upon him. Would Wayne be 
much changed? Could a year have made 
him much taller, and would a year be time 
epough in which to change from a happy, 
generous-hearted fellow into — But pshaw I 
Wayne could not change ! What a foolish 


JOURNEYING. 


33 


thought. Very likely it was he himself 
who had changed, if change there had been 
on either side. Would Wayne be glad to 
see him? Of course. Would the Shirwyns 
really welcome him as their letters said ? 
He was not so sure of this, — feeling some- 
what in awe of the stately gentleman who 
called to see Wayne at school one day. 

The Shirwyns were rich, and what the 
Burlingwood people called aristocrats ; 
Will was only — a poor- matins son. He felt 
it a little, just now — wishing that he could 
go to the Shirwyns as their equal in every 
respect; wishing that he had not been so 
eager to accept their offer, which might 
have been made more from a sense of obli- 
gation than gratefulness, and almost regret- 
ting that there was now no opportunity 
to reconsider his decision. ^ 

These groundless fears, for utterly ground- 
less they were, oppressed him somewhat 


34 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


all the long afternoon, and when the day, 
fading into an amber twilight, brought 
them into the outskirts of the city, it was 
with a kind of dumb longing for home, 
warm joy at the thought of meeting Wayne, 
and dread at meeting the others, that he 
picked up his book. Harper’s Weekly, and 
overcoat, and waited for the rumbling train 
to come to a standstill. 

The lamps twinkled out, the roar and 
din of a great city depot burst upon them, 
and Will hurried into the crowd, where he 
had not been three minutes before some 
one seized him by the shoulder, whirled 
him half-around, crying out, Will Rood, 
you blessed fellow, don’t you know me? 
Where’s your hand? Isn’t this jolly!” 

If Will was not well shaken up it was 
no fault of Wayne Shirwyn. When it 
seemed to him as if there had been enough 
of hand-shaking to answer all purposes, 
Will ventured to remonstrate. 


JOURNEYING. 


35 


“Well, I’ll hold up till we get home,” 
said Wayne, busy with taking Will’s pack- 
ages. “ You’re all right, I know by your 
looks, — so am I, — and we won’t stop to 
bother about the questions just now. Come 
on, Will, the carriage is waiting. We’ll get 
home just in time for tea. 0 jolly I ain’t I 
glad to see you! Baggage? We’ll let the 
baggage go till morning. Come on — this 
way I ” 

Again Will was seized upon, hurried 
through the crowd to the street without, 
a coachman shut them into the carriage, 
and in a twinkling they were rolling up the 
street — Wayne bending his head close to 
Will’s, and keeping up a steady chatter 
above the rattle and rumble. Wayne had 
changed, outwardly. A year had added a 
good deal to his height, so that he was now 
taller than Will, who was a little the elder. 
He had one of those high, proud faces 


36 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


whicli one may often see among delicately- 
reared sons of rich men, and as he sat 
among the velvet cushions, gracefully bend- 
ing to catch every word his friend uttered, 
generous-hearted Will thought him the per- 
fection of everything noble, handsome and 
manly, and was confident that, even if 
Wayne had grown a bit proud-looking, none 
of this pride had crept into his heart. 

The wheels grazed the curb-stone, Wayne 
sprang out, pulling Will after him, and with- 
out any pause took him at once up to his 


own room. 


CHAPTER III. 


FRIENDS INDEED. 

rpHERE I said Wayne, in a pleased tone, 
as he closed the door, ‘‘ here you are. 
Now you’re just in time to get washed, 
combed, and ready for tea. Father ’ll be 
home in fifteen minutes. Let me wield the 
brush. Sit down here, old fellow.” Will 
sat down on the end of a lounge by a pale- 
glowing grate of coal which the chilliness 
of the Spring evenings made most accept- 
able. His eyes took slowly in all the bright- 
ness and the elegance of this room of his 
friend’s, between their ceaseless flow of 
queries and answers. The warm-colored 
evening sky beamed in at the windows, 
37 


38 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


making everything rich and soft-hued. A 
little marble head looked down over its 
shoulders from the bracketed mantel, over 
which hung a painting like a tiny window 
looking upon a pale, emerald-tinted sea 
where evening shadows gathered. The lux- 
ury of everything exceeded all Will’s imag- 
inings. Mechanically his' thoughts went 
back to his own bare, dimunitive room under 
the rafters at home, and from thence he 
found his way down into the little kitchen 
where, at this moment, he knew that fath- 
er and mother and Mab were gathered. 

Hallo ! ” said Wayne, giving him a little 
punch with the brush handle, “ have you 
gone back to Burlingwood already? ” 

No, — well I forgot where I was, for a 
second,” Will admitted ; “ what a pleasant 
room you’ve got I How did you ever ex- 
change it for our little closets at boarding- 
• school ? ” 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


39 


“ 0, bother ! said Wayne, suddenly, “ it 
was easy enough. I almost wish I was back 
at Newland, sometimes, — don’t you? Now 
your head will do — and here’s the bowl 
and soap and — Jolly I you ain’t a bit 
taller that when I saw you last, do you 
know it? You make me feel gigantic. 
There are towels when you’re ready for 
them.” Will plunged his hands into the 
marble bowl. “ Ah,” said Wayne, dropping 
down upon the sofa and looking at his friend 
admiringly, how fresh you are ! I really 
believe that farm is a blessing for you, after 
all. Glad to see you ? I guess 1 am I I 
told mother a week ago t^-day, that I’d give 
all my next month’s spending-money if I 
could buy off the long week, and get you 
here with us at once. I don’t know how 
I’ve spent it ! — I only know I’m wonder- 
fully glad it’s gone, and you’re here to stay 
with us — nobody knows how long.” 


40 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


That is, if I suit, you know,’' said Will, 
with his face in the towel. 

Suit ! — oh, pshaw I ” said Wayne, im- 
patiently j “ you’re one of the kind not apt 
to suit, aren’t you? I know just how it 
will be. Father will take to you as if you 
were his own son. You are to be one of 
us — that has been decided, and 1 shall be 
thankful if you don’t run me out the family 
affections entirely. But don’t you trouble,” 
said he, coming to where Will stood, and 
affectionately putting an arm over his 
shoulder, “ 1 shall not be jealous in Mie least. 

I want to share home and their love and 
everything with you.” 

Will was silent, for the simple reason that 
he felt such generosity was beyond thanks. 
When he spoke, he said, You’re the same 
old Wayne — just the same.” 

Am I ? Do you think so ? ” said Wayne, . 
eagerly. Then his face crimsoned and he 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


41 


turned suddenly away, saying sadly, No, 
no ! — you don’t know — you can’t see. 0, 
Will I if I had only stayed at Newland with 
you, and — and — ” 

“ Well,” said Will, after a wondering 
pause, “ how would it have been different 
with you ? ” 

Here, to the evident relief of Wayne, 
there came a clumsy rap at the door. 
Wayne answered it. “ Ah,” said he, pulling 
in a little girl of four or five, “ let me in- 
troduce you to the Family Affliction, Will. 
She was christened Mary or Maria, or some 
other heathen name, but the classic cognomen 
of Mother Bunch has grown to her, and 
Mother Bunch she is.” 

Mother Bunch put up her bit oT a mouth 
invitingly, and Will kissed her heartily, 
thinking of Mabel. 

So you’re Will ? ” said she, standing on 
one foot to look at him. 


42 


WILD rood’s friendship. 


« Yes, he’s Will,” said Wayne ; « the Will 
who pulled your good-for-nothing brother 
out of the river, and came near losing his 
own life.” 

“ 1 like him,” said Mother Bunch, looking 
critically at the new-comer from head to 
foot. Wayne laughed a little, tumbled his 
sister’s curls and told her to run away ; and 
close upon the lingering echo of Mother 
Bunch’s feet, came the silvery tinkle of a 
bell. “ Tea, at last,” said Wayne, turning 
on the gas, and scanning Will closely, with 
an eager desire to have him look his best 
and brightest ; “ you’re ready ? Then come.” 

Of course Will’s heart beat fast as they 
descended the broad stairway, and thought 
of what he had got to undergo as soon as 
he passed within the half-opened door below, 
where the light streamed out so brightly ; 
but if he had any doubts of the Shirwyns’ 
sincerity ill their offer, they all vanished at 
the first words that were spoken. 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


43 


The family were all there, and as the door 
opened, the stately gentleman of Will’s re- 
membrance came forward, and at Wayne’s, 

This is Will, father,” shook the stranger’s 
hands warmly, and said, You are very 
welcome, my boy. We are not strangers 
in the least, for we have all known you two 
years already. My dear,” turning to the 
tall, stately lady at his elbow, “ this is Will 
Rood. Not quite so tall as our Wayne, but 
a trifle stouter, — and Nina, this is your 
brother’s friend.” 

Nina Shirwyn, a girl of fifteen, came 
forward and put her hand in Will’s, looking 
half-shy ly at him and saying cordially, “We 
have all been waiting patiently to see you, — 
except Wayne. He has been almost wild 
for a week.” 

“ There, Nina,” said Wayne, “ don’t tell 
of me too much, because I may retaliate, and 
tell Will how a certain young lady — 


44 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Here Nina seized upon Mother Bunch, 
saying, “ Here is some one who has not been 
introduced.” 

“ Ah,” said Wayne, you’re mistaken, for 
Mother Bunch got the first introduction, as 
usuaJ. And Will — this is all of us.” Then 
they sat down to tea. 

A boy among strangers — strangers mov- 
ing in a higher circle than he has been 
accustomed to — and with just a little home- 
sickness in his heart, can only know the 
gratefulness which filled Will Bood as he 
sat down among his new friends — for friends 
he felt they were. Their cordiality and 
delicacy touched him. His heai’t warmed 
toward the stately man who endeavored, by 
all the acts familiar to kindly hearts, to put 
his guest at ease and make him feel that 
he was a part of them. 

If this was what the Burlingwood people 
called aristocracy, Will wished it might be 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


45 


imported by some of the country folk who 
looked upon city-breeding with disdain. 
Mrs. Shirwyn, presiding over her cups of 
fragrant tea, Mr. Shirwyn at his end of the 
table, Nina, radiant and smiling, Wayne 
delighted and brotherly, and Mother Bunch 
sober and regardful, all seemed to take him 
in at once as part of themselves, much as 
if he was a long-absent son and brother, 
whose return made them all brighter and 
happier. And Will, recognizing this, was 
glad and happy. 

Of the evening which followed. Will had 
but confused memories — everything was so 
new and strange to him. He was conscious 
of wandering among the bookcases in the 
library with Wayne, of wondering whether 
one poor head could ever hold a tithe of the 
knowledge which such a hoard of books was 
supposed to contain, and of noticing Mr. 
Shirwyn at his writing-table at a far end, 
busy over letters and papers. 


4G v;iLL rood’s friendship. 

From thence they passed into a balmy- 
breathed, dimly-lighted conservatory, where 
the vines drooped and brushed against them, 
where lilies looked up white and pure, and 
the heavy sweetness of tropical bloom made 
the air almost oppressive. Then suddenly 
they stepped out of the fragrant dusk into 
the brilliant parlor where the rest of the 
family were sitting, and Mother Bunch, about 
to depart for the nursery, came up to kiss 
him good-night as Mabel had always done. 
So, with his head and heart full of fragmen- 
tary, glowing pictures of this new life upon 
which he had entered. Will bade them an 
early good-night and followed Wayne. 

Now where am I to go ? ” said Will, as 
they paused a moment in the hall for Wayne 
to ring for some water. 

“ Go ? Why, to bed, of course,” said 
Wayne, looking at him with some surprise. 
“ Where else would you go ? ” 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


47 


Nowhere. I only meant where am I to 
lay my head ? 

Oh — 111 show you, presently. Thank 
you, Blecker,’^ to the servant, as he took his 
goblet of ice-water. Now, come on, Will.^^ 
They went up the stairs that gave no 
echo to their footsteps, along the wide corri- 
dor, and entered Wayne^s room. The fire 
had died down to a bed of fiameless coals 
that flushed the room all warm and rosy. 
Will looked in, thinking that in the whole 
world there could not be a room more lovely 
or desirable, and that it was no wonder that 
Wayne had grown so handsome and noble- 
hearted living among such beautiful things. - 
“Well,’^ said Will, a little admiringly, 
this is your charming room — ” 

“ And yours,^^ interrupted Wayne. 

Mine ? ” 

« 

Pshaw ! don’t make me out of patience 
with you the first night. I told you you 


48 WILL rood’s friendship. 

\ 

shared everything with me — everything I 
This room is ours — yours and mine. Please 
walk in and take possession/’ said Wayne, 
throwing himself down upon the sofa and 
regarding his friend with mingled delight 
and amusement. 

Whatever anticipations his reception had 
given him, Will had not looked for this. 

Wayne, he stammered, really, you hadn’t 
ought to do so much. I don’t expect it, — 
some other room, not so nice, would be 
better, and it’s too bad to disturb you.” 

Wayne laughed. Poor fellow ! ” said he, 
commiseratingly, ^Mt is too bad. But the 
trouble is not without remedy. There’s the 
back attic where the old furniture is stowed, 
and it’s got a bare floor, and likely some 
cobwebs, and an occasional rat. It’s nice 
and chilly, too. Shall I show you up ? ” 
Will was at a loss for an answer. Wayne 
got up, took him by the arm and pulled him 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


49 


down by himself on the sofa. “ There, you 
foolish fellow,” said he, you make me so 
much trouble, that first 1 know you’ll break 
me of laziness. Don’t disturb me again for 
anything. This room and all that’s in it is 
yours just as much as mine. If you ever 
mention the subject again. I’ll never forgive 
you for it. If you’re tired — and I know 
you are — you can go to bed. I like to lie 
here and look in the fire.” Will was tired, 
and began to make preparations for going 
to bed. Wayne regarded him with dreamy, 
pleasureful eyes, saying, after a long silence. 
You don’t know the good it does me to 
look at you, — just to look at you. Will,” 
abruptly, “ you were always stronger than 
I.” 

“ At ball, yes ; but not at wrestling,” said 
Will, at work over an obstinate shoe-string. 

Pshaw ! ” in a vexed tone ; then more 
softly, “ I didn’t mean that. Will, — not 
strength of body, but of other things.” 


50 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


a 0-h-h.” Will drew a long breath and 
took a side look at Wayne. You look 
comfortable and happy/’ he said, smiling. 

“ I know, — that’s all you or anybody see, 
just the outside.- Oh, I think, sometimes, 
that I won’t bear ! — that I won’t bear it I ” 
Will looked up, bewildered. “ Why — 
why, I don’t understand,” he said ; what 
are you talking about ? ” 

Wayne hid his face in the pillows 
and clutched them desperately. When he 
looked up it was white enough, and Wayne 
was trying to smile. I think, sometimes, 
that I’m a fool 1 ” he said, vehemently. 

Here I’m talking like this to you the first 
night. I’m afraid I shall make you bother 
enough before you’ve been here long. I 
ought to have told you not to come, but I 
was selfish — selfish. I’m afraid for you ! 
0, Will ! ” 

Will’s bewilderment only increased. He 
looked at his friend with a troubled face, 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


51 


and eyes that begged an explanation, and 
was silent. Wayne jumped up. 

“ Oh, dear, l^m only making matters 
worse ! he exclaimed. “ Don^t look at me 
like that, you dear old fellow. We’re all 
glad you’ve come — we’re all rejoiced — it’s 
the very best thing in the world for you. 
It’s only me that’s wrong, vile, wicked — 
whatever you call it. I’ll tell you all about 
it in a few days. Will-— if I can get the 
courage. I’m in trouble — and it worries 
me ; but I know you’ll help me out for you 
are stronger than I. Now don’t let’s think 
of it again,” he added, with an attempt at 
his old cheerfulness. We’ll both go to bed, 
for it’s time.” 

He threw down the folds of the dainty 
bed as he spoke, whirled his velvet slippers 
into a corner, and bustled around the room, 
using every means in his power to distract 
Will’s thoughts from what had just passed. 


52 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


In a measure he was successful. Will’s 
face lost its troubled look. Wayne turned 
off the gas, -save the single jet at the bed’s 
head, and settled himself down comfort- 
ably among the sheets. Then came a little 
awkward pause — only for a second or two. 
Wayne looked up, on the point of saying, 
“ Where’ve you gone to. Will?” But his 
face softened in a moment, and when, after 
some minutes of silence that seemed very 
long. Will rose up from where he had knelt, 
Wayne looked at him wistfully and in si- 
lence. 

At last he said, “ Now, I know you are the 
same Will Rood as ever. You do just as 
you did at school ^ — when there were only 
two or three in the whole room, that did as 
you did. 0 Will ! ” 

“ And you ? ” 

Wayne gave his friend a sudden, impet- 
uous hug. • “ You’re stronger than I ! — I’m 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


53 


ashamed beside you. O, my dear Will, if 
you knew how I want to lean upon you — 
But pshaw ! I^m getting on the same old 
subject. You^re tired and sleepy. Happy 
dreams for you, and good-night, old fellow.” 

Good-night, Wayne.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE NEW LIFE. 

T he Shirwyns’ hospitality did not grow 
cold after their first welcome of the 
new-comer. Nothing was said about going 
to work, and Will found himself with nothing 
to do but enjoy the endless trips and ex- 
cursions to places of interest which Wayne^s 
untiring brain devised. The carriage came 
regularly every morning and ofi* they rolled 
for the forenoon. Wayne, as cicerone, left 
nothing unvisited which could possibly be 
supposed* to be worth looking at ; and took 
care, on several occasions, that they should 
meet his friends and acquaintances to whom, 

with some pride and delight, he introduced 
54 


THE NEW LIFE. 


55 


his friend. The city-bred youths stared 
politely, touched Will’s hand after the most 
approved fashion, and secretly wondered 
“ what country-cousin Wayne Shirwyn had 
brought to town? ” 

It was not strange that Will tired a little 
of this and longed to be at work. The 
boys to whom he had been introduced, 
hardly satisfied him with their unending 
talk about soirees, receptions, the new 
teams that were out, and the swell Alf 
Nelson was making with that new turn-out 
of his. He always turned from them to 
Wayne with a sigh of relief. If Wayne 
was a bit haughty and proud, he was not 
vain and conceited, and Will knew his heart. 
True, there was one exception — lame Sam 
Tryon — among his new acquintances, to 
whom Will turned instinctively with friend- 
ship and pity; but the others he cared 
nothing for. Now, longing to be at work, 


56 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


and still feeling his resolution to be a great 
help to the dear, patient workers at home 
strong within him, he said to Wayne, “ I’ve 
been an idler long enough. I’m really get- 
ting weary of pleasure, for a wonder. 
When do you think I can go to work ? ” 
Wayne shrugged his shoulders. “You’re 
so horridly in earnest about everything you 
do ! ” said he ; “ why, you’ve only been here 
two weeks and you’re tired of sight-seeing 
and pleasure, and ache to. get running in 
your groove. Better not be in a hurry. 
You’ll have to fag hard enough by and by 
to suit even you. Father will talk about 
work when he thinks you’ve had vacation 
enough.” 

“ I hope he’ll make the discovery pretty 
soon,” said Will. 

“ 0 bother ! why not enjoy yourself? 
There are lots of fellows you haven’t seen 
yet, and plenty that you don’t wish to see, 


THE NEW LIFE. 


57 


I suppose. What do you think Bob Haskell 
said of you ? I won’t tell you : and Sam 
Tryon, poor fellow, found a friend in you 
at first sight. And we haven’t beeli out 
to see Tommy Brewster, either. Tom’s 
father is a perfect Croesus, and Tom’s an 
only son — consequence : Tom spends money 
enough to support half-a-dozen families. 
You should see his horses. But you won’t 
like him, though he’s a pretty good-hearted 
fellow.” 

Will did not look at all' tempted by this 
description, and Wayne laughed at the half- 
weary look that was in his face. “ There’s 
no use in trying to tempt you with the 
things our city-boys enjoy,” he said, shaking 
his head; “what you want is work and 
books and your Saturday, now and then. 
And you’re right,” added Wayne, after a 
pause ; “ I get tired of it all I What good 
are we rich men’s boys ever going to do? 


58 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Nobody would miss us, any more than we 
miss the butterflies at autumn, and the 
world would go on just as well if we were 
out of it. But you ! — well, if you’d 
rather go to work than see Tommy’s horses, 
and all that sort of thing. I’ll just drop a 
hint to father.” 

Thank you,” said Will, gratefully. 

“Well, 1 deserve thanking,” said Wayne, 
“for when you go to work I must go back 
to my books, and that’s a sacrifice. These 
two weeks have been a perfect round of 
happy days — happier than I’ve known since 
I left you at Newland. But I thank you for 
that.” 

The next morning, at the breakfast table. 
Will received a pleasant invitation to go 
down to the office and take a look at the 
place which was henceforth to be the scene 
of his labor ; and half an hour after break- 
fast, he started with Mr. Shirwyn, in the 


THE NEW LIFE. 


59 


single carriage that conveyed that gentle- 
man to and from his place of business. 

“ Good-by, poor slave/^ said Wayne, as 
the}^ parted at the gate ; “ go and be a 
wrinkled, dried-up goose-quill, like Barstow, 
down at the office.” 

Will knew what he meant as soon as they 
entered the counting-room,*and the old head 
clerk came forward. He was a little, thin, 
yellow-faced man, who looked as if he had 
lived upon old ledgers all his life-time. His 
sharp, keen eyes, took in Will from head 
to foot, and looked him through and through 
the minute Mr. Shirwyn presented him. 

“ From the country, eh ? ” he said, still 
piercing Will with his eyes ; “ thaFs the 
kind of blood it takes to live in the count- 
ing-room. The less of your dull, sluggish 
city blood there is here, the better.” Here 
Mr. Shirwyn drew the old clerk aside, and 
a low conversation followed in regard to 


60 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


himself, Will knew well enough. The old 
man came back with something like a smile 
on his wrinkled countenance. 

So you and young Shirwyn are great 
friends, eh ? That’s right. Something ails 
young Shirwyn, — got something on his 
mind. You’d better find out what ’tis ! ” 
This abrupt declaration rather startled Will. 
He turned and looked, but Mr. Shirwyn had 
left the room “ Yes,” added the old clerk, 
looking at ^Will’s puzzled face, “ he’s got 
something on his conscience. You’d better 
help him get it off. I’m used to boys more 
or less. Don’t forget what I’ve told you. 
This way if you please.” 

This odd introduction to his work puzzled 
Will somewhat. What could Barstow know 
of Wayne ? Why should he tell him to 
help him with his trouble ? The old man’s 
words had very little effect, until Will had 
been in tlie office two or three weeks and 


K 



Barstox APVisixr, WfRR. Page 00. 

« 



THE NEW LIFE. 


61 


discovered that the old clerk’s keenness for 
reading character was to be depended upon, 
and that the wifeless and childless old man 
loved his employer and his family, as well 
as he did the spotlessness of his own reputa- 
tion. He found, too, that Wayne had a 
warm place in his heart, as he did in every- 
body’s who knew him.- This set Will to 
thinking more deeply. He was conscious, 
though he had battled against the thought 
every day since his arrival, that there had 
surely been a change in his friend. In what 
respects he was not yet able to tell. Some- 
times, in looking at Wayne’s face when it 
was at rest, it seemed to him that something 
had been lost out of it. Was it its inno- 
cence ? No ! — he would never believe 
that. Wayne was not a criminal. But what 
was it ? He could not tell. 

As the pleasant excitement of their first 
weeks wore away, he found that Wayne’s 


62 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


manner was often restless and uneasy, in 
strange contrast to his old, careless, happy 
ways at school. But Will was not to be 
easily convinced that what Barstow had 
said might be true. What if Wayne was 
restless and troubled at times ? It was 
not to be expected that he could always 
be light-hearted as a bird. Then, after 
thinking of the hundred little generous, 
noble acts, which Wayne performed uncon- 
sciously every day, he would laugh at 
himself and regret that he' had ever re- 
membered the old clerk’s words. 

As the Spring ripened into Summer, and 
Will became accustomed to his work, ac- 
quainted with his fellow-clerks, and a little 
less in awe of Barston’s keen eyes, his 
enjoyment of this new life was almost per- 
fect. He was supporting himself — that 
was a great delight — and already a little 
sum .(large in the eyes of people who saw 


THE NEW LIFE. 


63 


little money) had gone home. Then there 
was the charm of the home which the Shir- 
wyns gave him, the ceaseless source of joy 
and happiness. Their happiness and sorrow 
were his and his theirs. They included him 
in their plans and arrangements for Sum- 
mer pleasure-trips, consulted his tastes and 
wishes, and made him feel that he was 
indeed a son and brother to them. 

That all this kindness was owing to the 
gratitude which they felt toward Will, can 
hardly be affirmed. Some of it was the 
result of Will’s own uprightness and manli- 
ness, which won friends and friendliness for 
him everywhere. Whatever was good and 
pure and chivalrous in him, added to the 
interest which the Shirwyns already felt, 
and served as a double reason why they 
should thus love him as their own. 

When the Summer heats came on, there 
was a long consultation as to who should go 


64 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


to the seashore, and who remain at home. 
Mrs. Shirwyn, Nina, and Mother Bunch were 
to go as a matter of course ; about the three 
remaining members of the family there was 
some doubt. They were talking the matter 
over at the tea-table one evening, and 
Wayne, with the strangeness which had 
characterised him of late, had almost bluntly 
refused to go. Mr. Shirwyn had looked im- 
patient. 

Wayne, my son, there are many reasons 
why I wish you to take this trip,” he said. 

I think it will do you good. You have 
looked very dull, lately. Will will go with 
you, of course, and I will follow as soon as 
business matters will permit.” 

I thank you very much,” said Will, 
quickly, “ but I think I had better stay. I 
don’t need rest at all.” 

“ Oh, you old miser ! ” said Wayne from 
across the table ; then if Will is not going 


THE NEW LIFE. 


65 


neither am I, unless father commands me 
to.'” 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the 
tea-table. At last Mrs. Shirwyn said, half 
turning to Will, I wish Wayne to go very 
much. We want him brightened up. He 
has been in a dull, moping way lately. It 
troubles me.” 

Wayne flushed, and hurriedly said, Moth- 
er's anxiety, you know. Will. You haven't 
noticed any such thing, have you ? ” 
Wayne looked keenly over the top of his 
tea-cup as he spoke. 

To Will's infinite relief Mother Bunch saw 
fit to interpose a remark of her own at this 
point, and he was thus saved the pain of a 
reply. Then, crushing down his own re- 
grets, he said, If Wayne is going to excuse 
himself from going on my account, Mrs. 
Shirwyn, I'll thwart him by deciding to go 
with you.” 


66 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


Mrs. Shirwyn laughed and expressed her 
thanks. Mr. Shirwyn looked relieved, and 
Wayne frowned. But pretty soon a smile 
broke over his face and he said, gracefully 
bowing his head, It's very good in you. 
Will. I'll remember it." 

Then for the next week came the bustle 
of preparation, the packing of trunks with 
sea-side clothing, sea-side books, paper and 
linen for the sea-mosses, and all the dozens 
of articles necessary for a pleasant and suc- 
cessful trip to the sea. That he gave his 
consent to go unwillingly. Will disclosed to 
no one. That he was anxious and eager 
to be at work instead of spending a month 
or two by the sea he was careful to conceal, 
that the Shirwyns might not be troubled by 
thinking they carried an unwilling compan- 
ion with them; nevertheless somebody dis- 
covered his secret. Wayne came to him 
in the midst of this bustle of preparation. 


THE NEW LIFE. 


67 


looking more like the Wayne of old than 
he had for many a day. 

‘‘Will/^ said he, “if you are so foolish 
as to wish to stay in this brick wilderness 
through the hot weather, do you suppose 
I’m going to prevent you ? 

“ Wayne ! ” 

“Well?’’ 

“ You will go without me ? ” 

“ Yes, if you had rather stay. I release 
you from your promise.” 

“ Willingly ? ” 

“ Yes, since you wish to stay. I was 
selfish the other night, and wanted to make 
somebody uncomfortable. Hope you’ll en- 
joy your roasting — I expect to mine. Stop! 
I don’t want to be thanked for anything. 
Good morning.” 

Will had started for the office. He went 
on his way now, wondering how he could 
ever doubt Wayne Shirwyn, or suspect that 


68 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


his generous heart was heavy with the re- 
membrance of evil committed. 

So they departed without him, Wayne 
going in as docile a manner as could be 
wished. The long month and, a half which 
they were absent, seemed three to Will after 
Mr. Shirwyn^s departure. He breakfasted 
all alone in the great dining room, and 
supped there after his return from the office 
at night, with no one but the servants to ex- 
change a word with. The delightful society 
to which he had been accustomed, made the 
present loneliness all the more oppressive 
by contrast. Once he went to see lame Sam 
Tryon, who made a pleasant evening for him, 
and begged him to come again. 

But these days, otherwise so lonely, were 
brightened through and through by the 
recollection of what the money, earned by 
his self-denial, would do for the -people up 
at the farm, — how it would lessen mother’s 


THE NEW LIFE. 


69 


labor, and lighten fa therms toil through the 
hot, sweltering days, and make them all 
lighter of heart. And remembering this, 
he was glad and grateful and content. 

By and by there came a letter from 
Wayne, announcing the time of their return. 
Something about this letter troubled Will. 
It was not a cheerful letter, but read as if 
the writer was finding his vacation intolera- 
bly dull and weary, and as if his spirit had 
neither grown brighter nor more hopeful. 


CHAPTER Y. 


THE SHADOW DOES NOT LESSEN. 

HE Shirwyns returned on one golden 



J- evening in late Summer. Mrs. Baker, 
the housekeeper, had been busy all day in 
making preparations for their arrival, and 
as twilight fell the lights shone out all over 
the house, and the great rooms put on the 
look of brightness and elegance which Will 
had missed so long. The piano was open, 
waiting for Nina’s fingers, the flowers came 
back to their brackets and mantels in the 
^ usual profusion, and the tea-table, no longer 
lonesome-looking with its service for one, 
sparkled and glittered and waited for the 
travellers. 


70 


THE SHADOW DOES NOT LESSEN. 


71 


Will heard the carriage when it rolled up 
to the gate, and was at the door to welcome 
them. Mother Bunch, with her usual alert- 
ness, was the first to get out, and after 
stumbling up all the steps in her eagerness, 
succeeded in tumbling Will’s hair over his 
eyes, and half-smothering him with her 
vehement kisses. Then came Mrs. Shirwyn, 
with her bright smile and motherly kiss, and 
her quiet, “We have missed you more than 
I can tell, Will.’’ Nina followed, bright and 
radiant as ever, and then came Wayne. Mr. 
Shirwyn had stopped at his office. 

Will could hardly conceal his disappoint- 
ment as he took his friend’s hand and looked 
at his wearied, listless face. It was evident 
at once that the change had done Wayne 
no good. For a minute, as he greeted Will, 
the old color and animation came back to 
his face, and he exclaimed, “ This does me 
more good than all the sea-side in the world 1 


72 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


If you knew how I longed to be back here 
and with you 1 — Bah I I hate the sea.” 

Shortly after, Mr. Shirwyn entered, and 
after the travellers had shaken off the 
dust and dinginess of their long ride, they 
sat down to tea. Wayne hardly spoke in 
the midst of all their cheerful talk about 
the journey, the sea, the friends they had 
met and the sights they had seen.“ All these 
events had evidently given him no pleasure, 
and he seemed to have forgotten them 
already. 

At last, Mr. Shirwyn, as he finished a long 
account to Will of a yacht-race, looked up 
and said, — a shadow of anxiety on his 
brow — “But all our attempts at chasing 
the gloom, or whatever it may be, from 
Wayne's face, have proved useless. I think 
he had better stayed at home. Cannot you 
help us. Will? ” 

“ I can, if Wayne will let me,” said Will, 
looking across the table at his friend. 


THE SHADOW DOES NOT LESSEN. 73 


Wayne colored and frowned. “How do 
you know you can help me ? ” he said in a 
sharp, vexed tone. “ I don^t want any help. 
I don’t need any.” 

Mrs. Shirwyn sighed. “ I have not been 
able to find that he is ill or discontented or 
longing for a change,” she said ; “ but still 
he cared nothing for boating or fishing, nor 
anything, in fact, except to lie on the rocks 
and gaze in the water.” 

“ And he only made one sketch for me,” 
said Nina, “ when last year he used to go 
out every day.” 

“I dare say there are a hundred other 
things you can find to bring against me,” 
said Wayne, bitterly. “ It is very pleasant 
to sit and hear them. Can 1 be excused ? ” 

Permission being given, Wayne left the 
table. Mr. Shirwyn turned to Will almost 
in despair. “ It is very strange,” he said ; 
“ Wayne has always been cheerful and light- 


74 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


hearted until — really, I cannot tell when 
the change began. I only know that he 
is not the same Wayne, and that this trouble 
saddens' all our Jives.” 

It did sadden their lives. This evening 
of their return, which should and might 
have been so happy, was robbed of its per- 
fectness by Wayne’s absence from their 
circle. Nina was in her old familiar place 
at the piano, but the charm of her music 
could not dispel the shadow which had fallen 
upon them. 

When Will went up to his room, Wayne 
was lying upon the sofa and could not be 
prevailed upon to go to bed, so that much 
against his inclination he was compelled to 
leave him there. When he awoke in the 
morning, Wayne was still on the sofa, having 
fallen into a troubled sleep,. wherein he stirred 
and muttered and looked so oppressed, that 
Will was fain to drop two or three books 


THE SHADOW DOES NOT LESSEN. 


75 


with a little crash and awaken him. Wayne 
looked around, his great eyes wild and fear- 
ful, and it was not until they fell upon 
Will that their calmness came back. Will 
felt, then, as if he would never rest until 
he had gained possession of this troubling 
secret which was eating all Wayne’s peace 
and comfort away. But whenever any ap- 
proach to the subject was made, Wayne 
repelled him. 

After the return of the Shirwyns, and as 
the seekers after health, rest, or pleasure 
came back to the city in the pleasant Fall 
weather, the young people,— perhaps longing 
for the gayety of the Summer — began a 
round of parties and sociables which Wayne 
and Nina usually attended, — the givers 
generally being their own personal friends. 
The invitations at first ignored Will, more 
for the reason that he had evinced no in- 
clination to enter the young folks’ society 


76 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


than from any motive. But Wayne, with 
his usual regard for his friend, steadily re- 
fused to attend every party, reception or 
sociable to which Will had not received 0,n 
invitation, too ; until the circle of his friends 
suddenly discovered the reason for his mys- 
terious absence, and never failed to include 
Will Rood in their invitations. Will, how- 
ever, rarely attended, — partly from want of 
inclination, and partly from the conscious- 
ness that he and those gay, butterfly boys 
and girls had nothing in common. They 
belonged to the play-day side of life, — he 
to the work-day. 

But when it came the Shirwyns’ turn to 
give an evening entertainment, of course 
he, as one of the family, was to be present. 
For all the preparations that had been made, 
the family seemed to expect little pleasure 
from the event. This was owing to Wayne, 
who had been in unusually gloomy spirits 


THE SHADOW DOES NOT LESSEN. 


77 


for several days, and refused to take the 
slightest interest in what was going forward, 
though the party was to be given in his 
name. When the evening came and it was 
time for the guests to arrive, Wayne plead 
sudden illness and begged Will to go down 
and with Nina receive the company. Will, 
after long hesitation, at last assented, seeing 
that Wayne would not stir until inclination 
prompted him. But when the guests had 
nearly all arrived, there began to be many 
and repeated enquiries as to Wayne’s 
absence, — whether his illness was serious 
or only a headache, and whether he was too 
ill to see his friends. Nina came to Will 
with a perturbed face. 

Do beg him to come down,” she said ; 
** everybody is enquiring for him, and the 
whole party will be a failure unless he 
comes. If he won’t yield to you I will go 
and see him.” Will hurried up to their 


78 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


room. The gas was burning but dimly, and 
the moonlight streamed across the floor. 
Wayne was standing in front of one of the 
long windows, his straight figure and hand- 
some face outlined against the mild glow of 
the dead sunset. Will touched his shoulder 
and said, “ Come, my dear Wayne, they are 
all calling for you down below. You won’t 
spoil all the enjoyment for us ? ” 

Wayne turned with a look in his eyes that 
showed how far off were his thoughts of 
what was going on below, and looked at 
Will steadily for a minute. Then he said, 
slowly, You said you could help me with 
my trouble, if I would let you. Will you ? ” 
“0, Wayne!” cried Will, in delighted 
astonishment, if you would only let me 
try 1 ” He sat down on the bed’s edge and 
pulled Wayne down beside him. “ Now tell 
me all,” he said, eagerly, and your secret 
shall be mine and I will share the weight of 


THE SHADOW DOES NOT LESSEN. 


79 


it with you. I know it^s not a trouble with- 
out a remedy, and when you have told it, it 
won’t wear upon you so. 0, Wayne ! if 
yo^iad only come to this before.” Wayne 
hesitated. Don’t hesitate,” said Will, 
courageously, for what have you to tell 
that I ought not to hear ? Why, at school 
you told me all the mischief you had got 
into before you slept upon it. Now what — ” 

. “ 0, that I had stayed at school with you 
until you came I ” exclaimed Wayne, with 
a voice full of sadness, then all this trouble 
would not have been upon me.” 

Wayne had said this a great many times 
already, but it was no less a mystery to 
Will. He waited patiently for his friend 
to begin, but no sound came from Wayne’s 
lips. 

“Are you afraid of me?” said Will, re- 
proachfully. 

Wayne’s lips nioved as if he was about 


80 


WILD EOOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


to begin his story, but all sound died away. 
Some sad, sweet music floated up from the 
parlors and filled the room. Wayne shiv- 
ered. Then he got up, resolutely. 

“ I can’t tell you ! ” he said, excitedly 
walking back and forth. thought the 
struggle was over when you came in, but 
I haven’t the courage to tell you anything 
that will lower me in your eyes — never ! 
I’ll let the secret wear me out first. 0, my 
good friend, don’t blame me ! — don’t blame 
me ! You don’t know what it is to be 
weak and uncertain.” 

The tears of disappointment flashed into 
Will’s eyes. I don’t blame you,” he said, 
gravely ; “ but I am afraid we shall both bo 
sorry for this.” 

They were. Wayne’s golden opportunity 
had passed. 

^^Well,” said Will, after a long silence, 
we had better go down.” 


THE SHADOW DOES NOT LESSEN. 


81 


Wayne did not object, and pulled Will’s 
arm within his own, saying, ^^That is Sam 
Tryon’s playing. His music always makes 
one’s heart ache. Come, let us go down 
and be merry. If you weren’t in this house 
of ours, I’d fly thousands of miles away. 
Something tells me that you’ll be my salva- 
tion by and by. Ah — here they come. 
How are you, Tom? Good evening. Miss 
Brewster.” 

Wayne always made a stir when he en- 
tered a room fllled with young people, and 
Will would have liked a less conspicuous 
position j but Wayne held him fast, and took 
him from one group to another, introducing 
him to new acquaintances, and stopping at 
last at the piano where lame Sam Tryon sat. 
Sam’s health failing day by day, made him 
unable to attend but few of the entertain- 
ments of his friends, though he was a gen- 
eral favorite, and his presence was desired 


82 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


everywhere, and looking at his white face, 
and his thin hands that were running over 
the keys, Wayne whispered to Will, Poor 
Sam isn’t to be with us a great while longer. 
What a good thing it would be if we could 
change places, and have one good-for-some- 
thing stay in the world and a good-for-noth- 
ing go out of it I ” 

Perhaps it would,” said Will, if you 
have made the same preparation for going 
that Sam has.” 

Wayne here gave up his friend to Sam, 
and Will saw little of him for the rest of 
the evening, though he noted that he seemed 
to be carrying his part of the entertainment 
as gracefully as of old. 

When the guests were all gone, Nina said 
gratefully to Will, “ You are the David that 
charms our Saul. Wayne did splendidly, 
and when I asked him what had come over 
him, he said, ‘ Will.’ How do you calm 
him so ? ” 


83 


THE SHADOW ^ES' "not LESSEN. 

Will could not tell. But that night, after 
Wayne had thrown himself, sleepy and worn 
out, on the bed, and was breathing in slum- 
ber, Will knelt down and prayed for him, — 
all his yearning, anxiety and desire, strug- 
gling up from his heart in one eager, appeal- 
ing cry for God to save Wayne I — to save 
him from the haunting evil that was con- 
suming his life, to break his pride that held 
ba(^ confession, and to arrest the evil which, 
it seemed to Will, was hovering over them. 
When a boy puts his troubles in God’s hands, 
he can know that a father, whose love is 
unfathomable, guides him with kindness and 
pity, so sure and tender and unfailing, that 
the love and forethought of all earthly fath- 
ers fade to the merest nothing in compari- 
son. 

The next morning, at the office, Mr. Shir- 
v/yn came up to Will’s desk, looking troubled 
and anxious. Will knew that he had come 


84 


WILD rood’s friendship. 


to talk of Wayne before he spoke, and was 
not surprised to hear him say, My dear 
boy, I want you to do me a great favor. I 
know that you will be willing to, for Wayne 
is as dear to you as to the rest of us, and it 
is for his good. I want you to ascertain the 
cause of his trouble. We must know. This 
thing is wearing all the life and spirit out 
of him. Wayne, I think, will confess to yoi 
what he will reveal to no one else. I^ou 
can succeed in this matter — ” MrJ Shir- 
wyn paused, and finally added, it wHT be 
another unpayable debt added to what we 
already owe you.” Will related what had 
already passed between himself and Wayne, 
and though not at all confident of success, 
promised to do his best in the matter, and 
went home that night thinking deeply about 
it. 


CHAPTER YI. 


FROM TROUBLE TO TROUBLE. 

TJ^HEN Will entered the hall he found 
^ * Wayne there, leaning against the carved 
post of the balusters, and looking so cold 
and gloomy that he despaired at once of 
being successful in his undertaking. Hardly 
had he closed the door behind him, when 
Nina entered, smiling and radiant. 

Look,^^ she exclaimed, holding up a thick 
envelope ; “ see what Blecker has just 
brought us. Now you shall guess what it 
contains, Wayne and Will ! % 

“ A request to help in Mrs. BonnePs chari- 
ty-fair?” said Will. 

No, indeed.” 

85 


86 


WILL EOOD’S friendship. 


An invitation to somebody’s soiree,” said 
Wayne, wearily. 

“No, better than that ! It’s Hugh Storer’s 
birth-day to-morrow, and instead of the usual 
party in the evening, they have chartered 
a boat and given invitations to twenty to go 
up the river with them and have a dinner 
in the woods, and so come home by moon- 
light. Won’t it be delightful? The woods 
are turning, nuts are ripe, there will be 
music and a splendid full moon, and it all 
seems so delightful ! To think that Blecker 
should carry the invitations around in his 
pocket for three days ! A little longer and 
it would have been too late.” 

Nina gave Will the invitation to read, 
saying, 

“Don’t refuse this time. It’s a great 
while since you’ve accepted a single invita- 
tion. Won’t you go ? ” 

“ Yes, if I can be spared at the office,” 
said Will. 


FROM TROUBLE TO TROUBLE. 


87 


“ And you will go, of course, Wayne ? ” 
‘^No. I shall not go of course,” said 
Wayne ; I shall decline.” 

• Wayne ! ” said Nina, in astonishment ; 
“ you aren’t^ in earnest? ” 

“ Yes. I am not going.” 

“ Don’t say that,” said Will ; we shall not 
wish to go without you, and the river, air 
and the woods will do you good.” 

“ You and Nina can go, just as well, with- 
out me. I’m tired of the whole round of 
parties and excursions. I hate them I And 
I’m not going.” 

“ But Hugh is your friend,” said Nina, 
with a voice full of disappointment. 

Then he will forgive me for not going,” 
said Wayne. For go I shall not.” 

Here the tea-bell called them from the 
hall. Directly after tea, Wayne went up to 
his room, where Will soon followed him, 
intent upon fulfilling his promise to Mr. 


88 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


Shirwyn. Wayne had pulled the sofa from 
its place, and pushed it against one of the 
high, wide windows, where he could lie 
and look out upon the wide reach of sunset 
sky, now fading into misty, delicate hues, 
through which a solitary star twinkled. He 
looked up with a shadow of annoyance on 
his face as Will entered, but still beckoned 
him to come and sit beside him. Will sat 
down, at a loss how to commence upon the 
dreaded subject, and his eyes, slowly wan- 
dering around the room, made the discovery 
that the lovely little marble head was gone 
from its bracket. 

Why, Wayne,’’ he exclaimed, on the im- 
pulse of the moment, “ our marble is gone. 
Do you see ? — the bracket is empty.” The 
room was not light enough to reveal the 
crimson that flushed Wayne’s cheeks. 

“ But it was there this morning,” said 
Will, “ for I remember my eyes fell upon it 


FROM TROUBLE TO TROUBLE. 


89 


when I awoke. Don’t you remember I said 
it looked ready to speak? Sleepy, Wayne?” 

Wayne slowly raised himself up — at bay. 
His eyes shone with excitement, and liis 
words came with a vehemence that sounded 
oddly enough from him. 

“ No, I’m not sleepy,” he said, and am 
not like to be. What I’ve got to say may 
as well come first as last. The marble is 
gone, and we shall never see it again ; and 
I tell you I won’t be dogged and haunted 
till I’m worried into telling where it’s gone 
to! If you look on the mantel’ I dare say 
you’ll find the silver vases are gone too, — 
they went before the head. What is it to 
you ? I wonH be worried and troubled so 1 
I tell you I won’t, 1 wonH, I won’t ! ” He 
brought his foot down with a stamp that 
jarred the room. 

Will, for the moment, completely bereft of 
his wits by this outburst, sat silent and mo- 


90 


WILL rood's friendship. 


tionless. Wayne rose to his feet, walked 
haughtily to the door, and went out without 
another word. After he had gone. Will sat 
in the dusk, disposed at first to be indig- 
nant ; then his indignation softened into pity 
and a desire to seek Wayne at once, and 
heal this sudden, one-sided quarrel before it 
grew any greater. Poor Wayne was not 
himself, he thought, and he would find him 
and beg him to reveal what was wearing 
out his ver}^ life, and marring the happiness 
of all his friends. 

With this thought uppermost, and in his 
generousness remembering only Wayne’s 
good, he ran down stairs to find him. The 
conservatory was silent and shadowy, and 
there was no one there. In the parlors the 
chandeliers were all ablaze, flooding the 
rooms with light, but no one sat there. The 
house seemed very empty. He .entered the 
great, dimly-lighted library, and had got half 


FROM TROUBLE TO TROUBLE. 


91 


its length before he discovered that it had 
occupants. But there was one who had 
been watching him all the time. It was 
Wayne, with eyes still angry, looking from 
the great chair where he had thrown him- 
self. Nina was sitting beside him, and had 
evidently been holding his head and en- 
deavoring to soothe his anger. Will, sorry 
that he had thus come upon them, turned 
back ; but it was too late. Wayne’s fiery 
spirit had caught and blazed. 

“ Wait ! ” said he, imperiously, stamping 
with anger, you shall hear. I hate you ! 
I despise you ! You — ” 

0, Wayne ! Wayne I ” Nina screamed, 
what are you saying ? — Wa — ” 

Nina, be still I I want him to hear. He 
dogs my steps, he spies out everything I 
do. I can’t call my conscience my own. 
He follows me everywhere and I hate him ! 
1 hate him, and I won’t bear it any longer.” 


92 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


Wayne paused, breathless with his own 
fierce wrath. Nina threw her arms about 
him, beseechingly, and cried, 0 Wayne, 
don’t talk so ! Don’t listen to it. Will, — he 
don’t mean it, he never could talk to you 
like that in his senses. He is sick — 
troubled — 0 Wayne, what have you said? 
Tell him you don’t mean it — quick ! ” 

“ I do mean it,” said Wayne, haughtily ; 
I want him to leave the room now — this 
instant — or I’ll call Blecker. I won’t look 
at him ! ” 

I shall not trouble you to do that,” said 
Will, and with Nina beseeching him to come 
back, he turned and went out. Nina burst 
into tears as the door closed, and buried her 
face in the sofa-pillows. 

Now this sister of Wayne’s was very dear 
to him, and nothing could touch him more 
than the knowledge that he had caused her 
pain. So, after about ten minutes of silence, 
Wayne said. 


FROM TROUBLE TO TROUBLE. 


93 


Don’t be foolish, Nina.” 

No response but sobs. Another ten min- 
utes passed. 

Nina, don’t be silly. I didn’t mean to 
hurt you. I didn’t know you would be 
frightened. There, dear, don’t cry.” 

He left his chair and tried to raise her 
head, kissed her hair, told her that she was 
making him pain, and begged her to say she 
forgave him. But his entreaties availed 
nothing. At Jast he cried out, desperately, 
‘^Nina, will you speak to me? If you 
aren’t going to, I’m going off. I can’t stand 
this. Have I offended you too deeply to 
ever be forgiven ? Nina ! ” 

“You are not Wayne,” she said, tremu- 
lously. 

This offended him at first, but the more 
he thought of it the more its truth oppressed 
him, till he left her and went back to his 
chair where he sat sadly down. 


94 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


It would take too long to tell how the 
reconciliation was effected, but a little while 
after this, Nina was crying hysterically on 
Wayne’s shoulder, and begging him for all 
their sakes to repent of what he had done, 
before it was too late. 

Too late ? ” said Wayne ; why too 
late ? ” 

Nina looked up, spiritedly. 

“ You insulted him,” she said ; you — 
who brought him here, who declared that 
you shared everything with him, and that 
he was more than a brother to you — you 
turned upon your friend, insulted him, and 
drove him from the room. 0, Wayne, how 
could you say those words? ” 

Here Nina broke down. 

Wayne made no defense, his face settling 
down into such worn, haggard lines, and 
withal so sorrowful, that Nina’s heart was 
melted. 


FROM TROUBLE TO TROUBLE. 


95 


Dear Wayne,” she said, tenderly, looking 
searchingly into his great hazel eyes, if 
you would only let me help you bear this.” 

He shook his head, despairingly. What 
do you suppose I was born for ? ” he said. 
‘‘ I’m just an idle, useless thing, doing no 
good, and dragging my friends into trouble 
and abusing them. I don’t wonder that 
poor, idle wretches go and drown them- 
selves. 1 can feel why they do it.” 

“ Wayne ! ” 

I can. The other day, when Ben South- 
ard was buried, and all we fellows of his 
acquaintance went to look our last at him, 
I did not feel like shedding any tears as the 
others did. I envied him — lying there so 
calm and untroubled — and when the minis- 
ter spoke of his being cut off in the flower 
of his youth, I thought to myself it was a 
lucky thing for Ben.” 

Nina laid her white, shocked face against 


96 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


her brother’s, with no heart to upbraid him. 

Think,” she said, gently, of what you 
may be to all of us — father, mother and the 
rest.” 

“ Yes, think of what I might have been I ” 
said Wayne, with bitter vehemence, “ but 
what I can never be, now.” 

Nina’s startled, Why ? Why, Wayne ? ” 
received no reply. 

A little later. Will, who had thrown him- 
self upon the bed in his room, was called 
from the whirl of indignation and sorrow 
that filled his heart, by a soft tap at the 
door. Nina stood there. Her eyes were 
suffused with tears, and at first she did not 
speak. At last she said, tremulously, Can 
you ever forgive Wayne ? ” 

Will was silent for a full minute, his 
heart going out with yearning toward 
Wayne, but still swelling with the remem- 
brance of Wayne’s indignities. He knew 


FROM TROUBLE TO TROUBLE. 


97 


wbat was right in the matter, but the 
insolence of I despise you 1 still rankled. 

Nina trembled. She had seen Will roused 
once. She put her little soft hand on his 
arm, and said, chokingly, “ I beg it of you — 
for all our sakes. I would not ask you if I 
did not know that Wayne was sorry. He 
has repented, — I know that, — and it would 
almost kill papa to know what he said to 
you. I’m afraid he would never forgive 
Wayne ; and if you could be friends once 
more — if you can forgive him — we can 
all try to be happy again.” Still Will made 
no response. “ He is in the library,” fal- 
tered Nina, and will come up if you will 
let him.” 

No ; I will go down to him,” said Will. 

They went down together. If Wayne 
could be haughty and imperious when 
angry, he could also be humble enough 
when really penitent. As they entered, his 


98 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


figure — half bowed — was so expressive of 
contrition — there was such sorrowfulness 
and hopelessness about it, that Will’s heart 
smote him, and instead of waiting for 
Wayne’s apologies, he was the first to speak. 

“Wayne,” he cried, “don’t look like that I 
.We are friends. Tell him I forget it all, 
Nina, — tell him we’re just the same as if 
it had never happened. Why, Wayne, how 
ridiculous to think we could be enemies ! ” 

Will spoke as if his heart refused to com- 
prehend such a fact. 

Nina mentally blessed him for these words, 
while she whispered, “ Have you nothing to 
say to him, Wayne ? ” 

Wayne shivered. 

“ I don’t know,” he said, wearily. “ If I 
am forgiven, who can tell but that I shall 
be just as bad in another fit of vexation ? 
Will, I’m a brute I If you weren’t Will 
Rood, I don’t know how you would ever 
bear with me.” 


FROM TROUBLE TO TROUBLE. 


99 


He choked here and could say no more. 
Will forgave him from the bottom of his 
heart, with no reservations. 

“ Wiiy^ said Wayne, after a long silence, 
if you have taken me back into your heart, 
I shall try to keep there. God knows 1 
mean it.” 

He covered his face and smothered the 
groan that struggled up. What had he 
come to ? This secret evil had eaten away 
all his happiness and comfort, till there was 
no peace left for him. Looking back to the 
time before the evil was committed, and 
remembering his lightness of heart and 
happiness, he could see hovr the shadow had 
grown over all his joy and best impulses, till 
now he had been heaping abuse and insult 
upon this faithful, great-hearted friend of his. 
There was nobleness enough in Wayne’s 
heart to make him suffer keenly for this. 
Just now it seemed as if death and rest in 


100 . 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


the cool, friendly brown bosom of the earth, 
would be infinite joy compared with his 
present state. 

But the end was not to be yet. This 
burden was to be dragged around as long as 
life was his, unless — he confessed his 
trouble and received pity and help. But 
he could never do that — never I He could 
see the shocked faces of his friends, their 
grief and amazement, their — Oh, no I he 
would never confess it ! — never ! never I 
If death came, the secret should die wdth 
him, and they would never suspect. 

Will came to him from where he had been 
standing and said. 

It’s a beautiful, cool evening. Come 
out a little while, Wayne; it will do you 
good.” 

Wayne looked up with an efibrt. 

There are some books father spoke of 
yesterday,” he said ; we can walk down 


FROM TROUBLE TO TROUBLE. 


101 


town and get them. It will be good exer- 
cise.” 

^^But is there time?” said Will, a little 
surprised. 

Wayne looked at his watch and replied, 

It is only eight. We can be back in an 
hour and a half.” 

As he seemed desirous of going, Will 
assented. Wayne rose from his chair, kissed 
Nina affectionately, saying, “I don't know 
what becomes of these fellows without sis- 
ters,” and bidding her have the chess-boards 
ready, in case they returned early, set out 
with Will. 


CHAPTER VII. 


WILL EOOD^S FORGERY. 

rpHE books were ordered and the two friends 
started homeward. Wayne seemed in 
brighter spirits. They were loitering slowly 
along in the bright light of the shop win- 
dows, waiting for a car to overtake them, 
when Will became conscious that a heavy 
step was following them, — stopping when 
they stopped, slowly but surely dogging 
them when they moved on. He looked over 
his shoulder and saw a flashily-dressed man 
a little way behind. Wayne did not notice. 
To discover whether this was the individual 
with the slow, heavy step. Will stopped al- 
together before a shop window, engaging 


WILL rood’s forgery. 


103 


Wayne’s attention by something within. 
The man passed on and paused before a 
window a little way on, where he stood 
gazing in till they passed by him. Then he 
followed on. Will thought it a little singular, 
for the man was not drunk. But here he 
heard the tinkle of the car bell and saw its 
light coming down behind them. 

Here’s the car,” he said to Wayne. 

“That’s lucky,” said Wayne, “for I’m 
tired of walking.” 

The man at their heels heard. His steps 
quickened, and before Will had time to look 
around he was beside them and his hand 
came down heavily on Wayne’s shoulder. 

“ Sorry,” said he, in a cool, pitiless voice, 
“but you’ll have to miss the car. I’ve a 
little something to say first.” 

“ What right have you to hinder us ? ” de- 
manded Will, roused by the insolence of the 
man’s tone. 


104 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


A right that your friend, here, under- 
stands,” said the insolent voice ; ‘‘ he won’t 
think of disputing it.” 

Will turned to his friend, expecting to see 
him resent this speech with spirit ; but 
looking, a sudden fear filled his heart. 
Wayne was trembling like a leaf in the 
wind. His face, without much color of late, 
was snowy white, his lips trembled as if 
power' to speak was gone, and he leaned 
heavily on Will. 

Wayne,” said Will, as soon as he could 
speak, here is the car — just ahead of us. 
Come — quick — we will go home ! ” 

Wayne put up his hand. No — no,” 
he said, faintly, “ I must stay. You can 
■go, — I want you to go I” Will only stood 
the closer by his friend. The car, with its 
bells and lamps and heads at the windows, 
rumbled by. 

“ Better stand back a little,” said the man 


WILL ROOD^S FORGERY. 


105 


to Will ; I want a word in private with this 
fellow.” 

Will turned his back upon the speaker. 
“ Don’t tremble so, Wayne,” he entreated ; 

let me stand by you. This insolent fellow 
ought not to be listened to. Whatever he 
has to say, let him say it to both of us.” 

0, Will,” said Wayne, beseechingly, “if 
you care for me, don’t stand here. Don’t 
hear what he says, — don’t stay a minute 
longer, I beg you. I would rather be alone 
with him.” 

Will withdrew to a neighboring lamp-post, 
within the sound of their voices, but too far 
to hear what was said. Some anxious, fear- 
ful thoughts — almost suspicions — floated 
through his mind. A ray of light, strug- 
gling through a half-closed shutter, fell upon 
the man’s face as he talked, so that its every 
expression was read by Will, as he waited 
in a fever of indignation and anxiety. It 


106 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


was a face that had known evil for a long 
time, — the face of a man with whom, it was 
not to be supposed, any event of Wayne 
Shirwyn’s life could ever have brought him 
in contact. Yet Wayne trembled and shrank 
before him I 

This made Will fearful. Could his friend 
really be in the power of this vulgar, over- 
dressed, insolent man ? What could he have 
done ? Oh, if he might only know the 
truth ! He looked at the two figures, his 
heart swelling with indignation at the man’s 
overbearing, insolent manner, and hardly 
restraining himself from rushing to Wayne 
and pulling him away. His friend — the 
friend whom he had so loved and admired 
and exulted in — cowering before this evil- 
eyed, depraved gambler or pickpocket. 0, 
what shame I The hot tears, born of anger 
and pity, filled Will’s eyes. He felt as if it 
was unfaithful to stand by and not endeavor 


WILL rood’s forgery. 


107 


to break this man’s snare ; yet Wayne had 
tied his hands, refused to confide in him, and 
how could he help ? 

The conference was not very lengthy. 
With a warning, Remember, it all depends 
on you 1 ” that reached Will’s ears, the man 
turned back down the street, and Wayne 
stood alone. There was a look in his white 
face that frightened Will. 

“ 0 Wayne ! ” he cried, “ if you had only 
let me stayed with you ! Why dorCt you trust 
me? Are you faint? Wayne ! for heaven’s 
sake speak, and not look at me so I ” 

Wayne shuddered. 

“ Come, we will go home,” he said. 

Will hesitated. 

^^Have you nothing to tell me — nothing 
to explain, now ? ” 

^^No, nothing,” said Wayne, shivering from 
head to foot ; “ let us go home.” 

They walked on as fast as Wayne was 


108 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


able, — walking silently, for Will was con- 
scious that the friend by his side was 
suffering as he had never seen him suffer 
before. As they neared home, Wayne said, 

I can’t see Nina to-night, nor the others. 
Will you make it all right to them for me ? 
I’m going up to our room.” 

Will promised. 

Neither Mrs. Shirwyn nor Nina seemed 
to suspect that anything was wrong, and 
as it was late. Will excused himself, and 
went up stairs too. 

Wayne laid himself down on the sofa 
with* a groan, and instead of shunning Will, 
seemed to desire his presence. 

Come and sit down here,” he faltered ; 

I want to ask you something.” 

He raised himself up on one elbow, his 
eyes shining with excitement, as Will sat 
down by him. 

Now answer me truly, for you don’t 


WILL rood’s forgery. 


109 


know how much it means to me I If you 
were driven to that spot where you had 
either got to commit an evil to hide another, 
or expose what you had done, and so destroy 
all your happiness and good prospects, and 
those of your friends, which would you 
choose between? Would you hide* the 
evil by committing another, or would you 
confess all the shame, evil and disgrace ? ” 

Wayne trembled violently when he had 
finished. 

Why,” said Will, in some perturbation 
at . this strange question, that is a trial 
which comes to few. If one has done 
wrong, one’s friends do not fall oiff if they 
are faithful. They pity and forgive. But 
I think there is only one right way — to 
confess the evil. Then the trouble can live 
no longer.” 

<<But,” said Wayne, in a sharp voice, 
« if this confession disgraces you, if it 


110 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


lowers you in your friends’ eyes, if it puts 
you down to a level with thieves and gam- 
blers and blacklegs — what then ? ” 

It is right just the same,” said Will, 
trembling himself this time. 

Wayne groaned and said no more. Will 
sat by ftim, patiently hoping that he would 
get the courage to reveal his trouble ; 
but he hoped against hope. Then Wayne 
feigned slumber, and feigned it so well, that 
Will thought him sound asleep, and went 
to bed ; but when the room had settled into 
dreamy quietness, the figure on the sofa* 
stirred, opened its eyes and was broad 
awake. 

O, the weariness of that night ! — the long, 
long, sleepless hours, the dread of coming 
day, the tormenting consciousness that with 
the morrow’s coming came the hour wherein 
he was to choose between confession and 
a deeper plunge into evil I 


WILL rood’s forgery. 


Ill 


When Will awoke in the morning, Wayne 
lay so worn and weary, that he had no heart 
to refer to any of the events of the previous 
evening, and promising to send Blecker up 
with some breakfast, he went down to his 
own. 

It was nothing very unusual for Wayne 
to be absent from the breakfast table, and 
no one seemed to think very much of it, 
with the exception of Nina, who followed 
Will to the door, as he started for the 
oflSce. 

“ Is it Wayne’s trouble still ? ” she asked. 

Yes. He is worn and tired this morn- 
ing, and I don’t believe he slept much last 
night. Perhaps you can persuade him to 
look brighter by and by.” 

I shall try,” said Nina ; and you have 
not forgotten the excursion this afternoon ? 
Hugh will be offended unless some of us 
go.” 


112 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Wayne will hardly be fit,” said Will ; “ I 
think I will come back at noon, if Barstow is 
not in too much of a hurry. Perhaps we 
can persuade Wayne, when he finds we are 
both going.” 

“Oh, thank you,” said Nina, radiantly ; 
“ good-by till noon.” 

Now it chanced that Will was in Mr. Shir- 
wyn’s private office that forenoon, engaged 
upon some copying. Mr. Shirwyn was ab- 
sent from the city, so that he was quite 
alone, save an occasional interruption from 
Barstow. Nothing could have been more 
favorable for the evil that was coming. 

Toward noon, when Will was thinking of 
the proposed excursion, the door opened 
and Wayne entered. Will did not conceal 
his surprise. “ And how much better you 
are looking ! ” he exclaimed ; “ I am glad, for 
now you can go up the river with us. It 
will do you good.” 


WILL rood’s forgery. 


113 


Wayne sat down, languidly. 1 am not 
going up the river,” he said. Perhaps I 
look better than I feel.” 

But Nina is very anxious to have you 
go,” said Will. 

Pshaw ! ” laughed Wayne, with an at- 
tempt at the old gayety. That’s no reason 
for my going ! Nina had a great deal rather 
have you for an escort. What a handy 
fellow you are with a pen,” he added, after 
watching Will’s smoothly-gliding pen for a 
moment. He was silent a minute. In that 
minute, tempted of the Devil, and seeing all 
things favorable, he yielded himself up — 
vanquished. “ I wish I had half your 
skill I ” he said. ** Can you imitate other 
persons’ hands ? ” 

Will, glad to find his friend in so talkative 
a mood, and willing to humor him, took up 
an envelope — half-covered with the big 
handwriting of some business man — and 
dashed off an imitation. 


114 


WILL rood's friendship. 


Ah — I thought you could!" said Wayne, 
with a flush on his cheek which Will did 
not observe ; “ but there's one you can't 
copy — father's. It's queer and. straight." 

Let's see," said Will, with a twinkle of 
his eyes, but before he had made a stroke, 
Wayne interposed with a clean, fresh sheet 
of paper. 

It will look best on there," he said j but 
you can't do it, Will, — you really can't." 

I think that at that moment and in his 

heart, Wayne Shirwyn hoped his friend 

could not do it. But it was a frail hope to 

cling to, and it failed him. Will took down a 
( 

book in which was Mr. Shirwyn's signature, 
and bent over his task, using the utmost 
care and pains. Wayne looked on, with 
cheeks in which the color was coming and 
going. 

“ There 1 " said Will, with a bit of triumph 
in his voice, as he made the last stroke," 
“ what do you think of that ? " 


WILL rood’s forgery. 


115 


“ Perfection itself I ” said Wayne, really 
surprised j “ I couldn’t tell it from father’s 
own.” 

At this instant Will chanced to look at the 
clock. ‘‘ Five minutes of twelve I ” he ex- 
claimed ; “ why, I must go this moment, or I 
shall be late. I came near forgetting jny- 
self.” With this he jumped off his high 
chair, hastily putting his pen in its place, 
and picking up the bits of paper which 
Wayne and he had scattered over the desk. 

“ Never mind all that litter,” said Wayne, 
holding the bit of paper with his father’s 
signature. I’ll take care of that after 
you’re gone.” 

“Thank you,” said Will, gratefully. “I 
am in a hurry.” He took down his cap to 
go. When it was on his head and his hand 
was turning the door-knob, Wayne suddenly 
came up, his eyes full of tears. “Wayne I — 
What is the matter? ” ejaculated Will. 


116 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Wayne bit his lips as if vexed with him- 
self. “ I’m a fool ! ” he said, abruptly, and 
turned away. Then, as if he could not 
smother what his heart was aching to say, 
he came back and said, sorrowfully, “ Don’t 
think hard of me. Will, whatever happens I ” 
Of course not,” said Will, wonderingly ; 
“ why should I do that ? ” He v»raited three 
or four seconds for Wayne to say something 
more, but as he was silent, closed the door 
behind, and went down the long salesroom 
and out into the street, bright with autumn 
sunshine. He had already forgotten copy- 
ing Mr. Shirwyn’s signature, and his hurried 
walk, and the bustle of departure up the 
river, effaced all remembrance of Wayne’s 
actions for the time, at least. 

When Will and Nina returned from up the 
river, late in the pleasant, moonshiny even- 
ing, they found Wayne awaiting them in 
the library. He looked brighter than usual 


WILL rood’s forgery. 


117 


and appeared to take mucli interest in the 
lively, glowing account of the afternoon’s 
pleasure, which Nina gave in her charming 
manner. 

Sitting there beside Wayne, her handsome 
face all aglow with delight and love at find- 
ing her brother so cheerful, and the leaves 
and wood-berries that had been twined in 
her hair drooping over her forehead and 
neck, as she bent every few moments to look 
into Wayne’s face, and laugh at somebody’s 
mishap, the youth who sat the other side 
of the room thought her a model sister, and 
wondered if Mabel would ever be like her. 


CHAPTER YIII. 


A THUNDERBOLT FROM CLEAR SKY. 

A FTER this the days went on much as 
usual, — calm, sunny, autumnal days, that 
showered their brightness even into the 
city’s cold heart. Wayne seemed to be 
gradually recovering his- lost lightness of 
heart, and, though often oppressed with 
strange fits of gloom and despondency, was 
certainly more cheerful and sociable than 
he had been through the Summer. 

Quick to perceive this change, the family 
rejoiced and took new hope. Their old, 
happy, buoyant-hearted Wayne was coming 
back to them. Now the shadows which had 
made all the Summer sad, would flee away. 


A THUNDERBOLT FROM CLEAR SKY. 119 


But Will, who knew more of Wayne^s 
trouble than the others, though disposed to 
hail with joy any sign of returning peace 
and happiness to his friend^s heart, could 
not feel quite at ease. 

Wayne’s trouble, whatever it might be, 
certainly seemed to be lessened, but that 
it was gone entirely, Will did not believe. 
He was too often sad and depressed to have 
a perfectly clear conscience, and very often, 
in his most despairing moods, he would 
haunt Will all the evening, manifesting un- 
usual regard and affectionateness, and often 
begging him to remain his friend whatever 
happened. Though at the moment this 
seemed nothing. Will presently had occasion 
to remember it all. 

Quite early one morning, a few minutes 
after Will had taken his place at the desk, 
Barstow came to him with a troubled look 
on his wrinkled, yellow old face. 


120 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


“Mr. Shirwyn would like to see yon a 
few minutes in the private office/^ he said, 
looking Will through and through with those 
wonderful eyes of his ; “ you had better go 
* in at once.^^ 

Thinking only of Wayne, and the request 
which Mr. Shirwyn had once made, Will 
slid off his chair and entered the little room. 
Mr. Shirwyn sat at his secretary with a 
great litter of papers and letters before him, 
and in one hand he held a bit of crumpled 
paper. The cold, stern, silent scrutiny 
which Will met, surprised him, but he bore 
it bravely. How could he shrink when he 
had done nothing of which to feel guilty ? 

The two looked at each other silently for 
a minute, — WilPs face simply surprised and 
wondering, Mr. Shirwyn^s struggling be- 
tween its usual kindness and the unusual 
expression of sternness. At last Will said, 

“ You sent for me, sir.? 


A THUNDERBOLT FROM CLEAR SKY. 121 


“ Yes” said the merchant with an effort, 
I want you to look at this.’^ 

He opened his hands as he spoke, and 
smoothed out the bit of paper. Will 
stepped forward, still wondering, and looked. 
It was a check for quite a large amount, 
upon which the money had been drawn. 
There was nothing unusual in its appear- 
ance, and with a puzzled air. Will said as 
much. 

Mr. Shirwyn looked at him in doubt. 
Please look again,’^ he said, after a pause ; 
look closely.^^ 

Will bent over the paper, examining 
everything minutely. Not a letter was 
passed by, and he came to the signature, 
still wondering what all this strange pro- 
cedure meant. But suddenly, in the twink- 
ling of an eye, the color all flew out of his 
face, he threw up his hands with a quick 
gesture of horror, and then the whole 


122 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


awful truth — Wayne’s complicity and guilt, 
Wayne’s faithlessness and his own implica- 
tion in the evil — came down upon him with 
mountain-weight, and he stumbled backward 
into a chair, feeling, for the first time in his 
life, as if he was going to faint. 

There was nothing but pity in Mr. Shir- 
wyn’s face. He brought a glass of water, 
and waited for Will to recover a little from 
the shock. Then he said, his voice fairly 
trembling with agitation, You acknowledge 
forging this signature ? ” 

Will shuddered at the words, but an- 
swered, Yes, I did it.” Mr. Shirwyn 
groaned and turned away his head. He 
had hoped and prayed that the boy might 
vindicate himself. Here was a confession 
of guilt at the outset. 

A sudden thought flashed into Will’s 
heart. Was it possible that his employer 
thought him guilty of taking the amount 


A THUNDERBOLT FROM CLEAR SKY. 123 


which the check represented? He looked 
up, the hot color flushing his face, and his 
voice ringing out clear and full as he said, 
“ Mr. Shirwyn, do you think I have taken 
your money ? ” 

The merchant looked at him, sorrowfully. 
“ The money has been drawn,” he said j the 
signature was very successfully done.” 

Will’s eyes sparkled. I forged your 
name,” he said, but I have never taken one 
penny that was not my own — not one I 
Can’t you trust me ? ” 

“ So there was an accomplice ! ” said Mr. 
Shirwyn, in surprise, and wondering at the 
boy’s frankness, 0, Will I what would I 
have given if this had never happened ! ” 
He turned away hjs head again. 

But,” faltered Will, touched by his em- 
ployer’s emotion, “ you will believe that I 
have never taken your money ? You will 
trust me in that ? ” 


124 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


“ Then who did take it ? demanded Mr. 
Shirwyn. Will was silent. It seemed to 
him that God could not have given him a 
harder trial. Wayne had been faithless to 
him. Should he be faithless to Wayne ? 

In the fierceness of his temptation to ex- 
pose Wayne and clear his own name from 
all dishonor, he struggled to remember what 
was best for them all. If Wayne was left 
to repent, and make a confession of his own 
free will, would it not be better than to ex- 
pose his evil and have the whole mysterious 
circumstances of his trouble brought forcibly 
to light? What would be best for Wayne? 
What would be best for all these people who 
had been such friends to him, — to save them 
pain, or give them trouble ? 

If you did not take the money, who 
did ? ” repeated Mr. Shirwyn. 

Wayne’s name struggled up to his lips, 
but he crushed it down and was silent. 


A THUNDERBOLT FROM CLEAR SKY. 125 


“ Ah/^ said the merchant, sadly, I would 
give ten times the amount of the forgery, to 
put you back in the old place in my heart. 
It’s not the money I care for — I forgive 
you that — but the deception I the decep- 
tion I We have trusted in you so, we have 
made you such a son and brother — Well, 
it will do no good to mourn over what has 
happened. Have you anything to say for 
yourself?” 

Mr. Shirwyn,” said Will, with as much 
calmness as possible, with such a whirl in his 
heart, have never taken or thought of 
taking one penny that did not belong to me. 
Nor have I wronged you intentionally.” 

“ Then who has wronged me ? ” said Mr. 
Shirwyn, impatiently ; tell me that I ” 

can never tell you,” said Will,* can 
only ask you to trust me and believe what 
I say.” 

Mr. Shirwyn groaned, believing that the 


126 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


boy was trying to evade conviction by 
further deception. 

I trusted you like my own son/’ he said, 
reproachfully ; “ you had grown dear to me 
like my own, and I had built many plans for 
your good. So had we aJl, and you have 
the satisfaction of knowing that you have 
destroyed the happiness of our family, for 
the present, by your conduct.” 

Will shivered with pain. They had all 
been so good to him I Now, how ungrateful 
he must seem to them. Oh, could he bear 
this trial? — bear it for their sakes? Boys 
who have God for a guide, find other 
strength than their own in the hour of 
trouble. Will .clung desperately to his de- 
cision to spare Wayne and suffer in patience. 

“ But,” continued Mr. Shirwyn, sternly, 
rising from his chair, since you have 
chosen evil for your part, you must abide 
by the decision. All this will remain a 


A THUNDERBOLT FROM CLEAR SKY. 127 


secret outside of my own family and Bar- 
stow, for you are young and I do not want 
to ruin your character. I forgive you the 
loss of the money — but the rest I cannot 
forgive. Henceforth you must be a stranger 
to us — a perfect strange 

You may imagine how Will suffered, hear- 
ing this. Every word cut him to the heart. 
He seemed perfectly crushed by the blow. 
Looking at him the tears came into Shir- 
wyn’s eyes, but he nerved himself to be 
stern and impartial. 

I favor you thus,’^ he said, in a less hard- 
tone, partly for Wayne’s sake, partly for 
your own, and remembering what you have 
been to all of us. If Wayne was in your 
situation — if it was possible for him to 
fall thus — I should want some one to be 
lenient with him. But do not think that 
because of this there will be any relenting. 
That is impossible. You can see Wayne 


128 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


once more if you wish, but that is all. The 
rest of the family you must not see, and 
after this once, Wayne never again. He 
must be dead to you. Do you understand ? ” 

Will made no reply. His soul was in 
that darkness and terror of temptation where 
God tries the souls of his children, to find 
whether they are wanting. It seemed to 
him that if Mr. Shirwyn said much more, 
he must yield and throw off the great load 
of disgrace and shame that had settled upon 
him. But Mr. Shirwyn had little more to 
say. He lingered over his letters and pa- 
pers awhile, then turned around abruptly 
and said, 

I am going out for a little while. When 
I return you will be at liberty to look for 
a new situation, or to go anywhere you 
choose.” 

He turned the key behind him as he went 
out. 


A THUNDERBOLT FB03I CLEAR SKY. 129 


The Shirwyns were said to have noble 
blood in their veins, coming to them from 
some princely ancestor far back in the dead 
centuries ; yet somehow, it seems to me, 
the old heroic blood had found its way Into 
Will Rood’s plebeian body, and showed itself 
forth with a princeliness for which the Shir- 
wyns had no equal. Thrusting self aside, 
he had taken upon his shoulders the result 
of all Wayne’s wrong-doing, to save Wayne 
and Wayne’s friends. 

Perhaps you will say that Will’s friend 
was not worthy of this sacrifice, that it 
was wasted upon an undeserving object ; 
but we were not put into the world to 
mete out to people their deserts. It was 
very easy to reveal the whole, expose 
Wayne, cause the whole of his evil-doing 
to be revealed far back to the period of 
its commencement, and place him — guilty, 
degraded, condemned — before his friends, 


130 


WILL rood's friendship. 


and thus save his own honor and reputation ; 
it was another matter to let the whole blow 
fall upon himself and wait, through all the 
shame and disgrace, for Wayne to repent 
and confess his evil. Yet this he had 
chosen, and there the princeliness of one 
blood was not to be compared with the 
majesty of the other. 

As the key turned in the lock. Will slid 
out of his chair on the floor, his face resting 
on its cushion. He did not cry nor sob, — 
there were no tears in his eyes. He did not 
pray, — the thoughts whirled too wildly in 
his heart. He only sat crushed and almost 
faint with pain. But soon enough he began 
to think what would be the consequences of 
his sacrifice ! Oh, what ruin to his life ! 
what disgrace I what a blight upon all his 
prospects ! And the friends at home — fath- 
er, mother and Mabel, for whom he had 
meant to do so much — what should he say 


■5 





AViij, ScsrrcioN. 13 (i 

















A THUNDERBOLT FROM CLEAR SKY. 131 


to them ? What could he tell them ? How 
could he go back to them with this great 
blot upon his good name ? 

And Mrs. Shirwyn, who called him her son 
with Wayne, who loved him and trusted in 
him, and Nina, with her bright, sisterly ways, 
would both look upon him as an ungrateful 
creature, who turned upon the friends that 
had cherished him. They would try to for- 
get him as one whom they had trusted un- 
worthily, and his name would be banished 
from the household. All these thoughts 
came to him as vividly as reality. And 
Wayne, faithless Wayne — ah, that was hard- 
est of all to bear ! It was his friend who 
had stabbed him, — his friend I 

0, Wayne I Wayne ! ” he groaned, how 
could you ? How could you ? ” 

Mr. Shirwyn came back and with a stern- 
ness which he did not feel, said. 

You are now at liberty to go where you 


132 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


choose. As no one will know of your delin- 
quency, you will probably have little diffi- 
culty in obtaining another situation, though 
I should not advise you to do so as long 
as your present propensities remain unre- 
formed. Good morning.” 

Mr. Shirwyn turned on his heel and went 
out. Will did not stir for some time. 
Where should he go ? Who Would take him 
in ? But when his thoughts got calmer, he 
was not long in making a decision. 

He would go home. 


CHAPTER IX. 

HOME. 

lyrR. THADDEUS UPSON was busy lifting 
trunks and bales to the top of the stage- 
coach, and stooping to pick up a good-sized 
trunk, he took a look at its owner who was 
standing silently by. 

“ Hullo I said he, with a whistle, “ if this 
ain’t you, Will Rood ! Bless me ! how you’ve 
growed since you went to the city. Sick? 
— goin’ home to Thanksgivin’, or what ? ” 

A nervous, excited old lady, who had not 
yet recovered from her car-ride, here claimed 
Mr. Thaddeus’s attention, and saved Will 
from the persecution of further enquiries, 
for which he was inexpressibly grateful. 


133 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


lU 

He stood there in the dusk, in the midst 
of the noisy bustle of getting under way, 
with but a dim consciousness of what was 
transpiring around him. When for a mo- 
ment eye and ear were opened, it was to 
notice how extraordinarily happy every- 
body seemed, and how boisterously loud and 
cheerful the country folk were talking. At 
that moment Mr. Thaddeus was bawling out 
in his big, raspy voice, 

“ Don’ know ’bout that. Mis’ Blodgett ! 
You ain’t no feather-weight now, I can tell 
ye, an’ if you’re agoin’ to sit in the hind 
end I reckon there’ll be an accident.” 

Upon this came the echo of women’s 
voices, laughing and remonstrating, and then 
came the bustle of climbing into the stage, 
with such loud talking from farmers who 
had been down to town on business, and 
women who were going home from shopping 
expeditions, and with such overflowing good- 


HOME. 


135 


nature and merriness reigning over all, that 
Will wondered if the country people he left 
behind used to have such light hearts. 

He too was going home like the others, 
but with disgrace and shame heaped upon 
him. What would Mr. Thaddeus say if he 
knew he had forged his employer’s name? 
How all these rough, jolly country folk 
would shrink away from him if they knew 
the truth ! 

The stars were out all over the sky when 
the bundles and bales were stowed on the 
coach-top, and Mr. Thaddeus, with a last 
look all around, cried out, 

Come, Will, we’re all aboard. S’pose 
you’re goin’ to ride up here with me, 
o’ course. You were always the chap for 
havin’ the outside seat, 1 remember.” 

Thank you,” said Will, dreading Mr. 
Thaddeus’s inquisitiveness, but I think I’ll 
go inside this time.” 


136 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Mr. Thaddeus speculated much over this 
when the coach was under way, and rolling 
along the turnpike where the friendly lights 
shone out of the farm-house windows. 

Been a-gettin’ too smart to ride outside,” 
he soliloquized. “ Never knew a boy that 
went to the city but what was spoilt for one 
thing or another. ’Fraid it’s damp and he’ll 
hurt his throat, mos’ likely. I swunny I 
I didn’t think Will Rood would come to 
that. Who-a-a-ay ! ’Pears to me it’s 
rather early to he goin’ home to Thanksgiv- 
ing — Stea-a-ady there ! — Hope the young- 
ster hain’t been gettin’ into any scrape.” 

But somebody, quite unconscious of Mr. 
Thaddeus’s conjectures, sat crowded next 
to the coach-door, his head resting against 
the glass, and his eye taking in the whole 
dim, vast, shadowy panorama that swept by. 
Through all the anguish of thus returning 
to his friends, there struggled a gladness 


HOME. 


137 


that he was going home. He could not be- 
lieve that father and mother would cast him 
off. They would trust in him, they would 
give him the comfort of their love and sym- 
pathy. And then the country was friendly. 
There was room to breathe ; it was great- 
hearted. 

The very meadows stretching away 
through the dimness, the old orchards with 
their fragrant, dropping fruit, the lowing 
cows at the yard-bars, seemed to welcome 
him. Looking and listening to all they 
passed in the dusky, stardit evening, his 
heart felt stronger and lighter. The wafts 
of crisp, fresh night-air that blew in when 
the door was opened, revived him. 

Still smarting under Mr. Shirwyn^s stern- 
ness, he listened to the rough, hearty, friend- 
ly voices that were making the place a 
Babel, with something akin to pleasure. Oh, 
it was good to flee away from the cold? 
heartless, unfeeling city I 


138 


WILL rood's friendship. 


So the coach climbed up hills and rumbled 
down, the stars shone in brighter upon him, 
the golden glow over the woods in the west 
faded into pure, lucent, palest amber, the 
jangle of talk dwindled away to a one-sided 
conversation between “Mis' Blodgett" and 
a drover on the back seat, respecting “ Sary 
Ann's baby," and even this ceased when 
the coach drew up before a farm-gate and 
Mr. Thaddeus, opening the door, announced 
that “ Mis' Blodgett was to hum." 

Then came the delay of looking up the 
baggage, — Mr. Thaddeus's lantern flaring 
great circles of light over the leaf-strewn 
ground, the wide farm-gate, the stout, cor- 
pulent woman who got out, and some curly- 
headed children who had come down to look 
on, till at last matters were righted, the 
door slammed, the whip cracked and off 
they rolled. 

Things grew familiar at last; he caught 
a glimpse of the bar-way, a mile from home. 


HOME. 


139 


where he had been so many times after the 
cows ; the old butternut tree, which the 
lightning had shivered, extended a bleached, 
shrivelled arm to him through the dusk; 
a solitary star gleamed up from the glassy 
little brook where he had so often waded, 
and everything hinted of home and friends. 
But now, so near his journey^s end, his heart 
was divided between joy and anxiety. How 
should he meet them ? What should he say 
to them? 

He pressed his face against the glass to 
catch the first glimpse of light from the 
home- windows. Yes, there it shone,- — just 
as bright as ever, just as he had seen 
it hundreds of times before. The coach 
stopped and he sprang out. Mr. Thaddeus 
brought down the trunk without much delay, 
set it within the gate, took his fare, and with 
a rather gruff good night, rumbled on into 


140 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


the darkness. Will paused, leaning against 
the gate. This was home 1 

Old Mrs. Rood was getting a late supper 
that night, the farmer having been down to 
Newland on business and just returned. 
Her back was toward the door as she bent 
over the stove, so that she did not perceive 
it to swing slightly ajar a few minutes after 
the coach passed. The farmer, with chores 
all done and waiting for his supper, was 
deep in the contents of the weekly paper, 
over which he was poring by the dim light 
of a candle, hung on the black mantel just 
above his head. They did not know how 
some one, with tears in his eyes, was watch- 
ing the picture they made, through the crack 
of the door. If the mother thought of her 
boy, it was as in the far-away city in the 
bright, elegant, pleasant home which he had 
written so much about. Mabel, Will could 


HOME. 


141 


see, was sitting in her little chair, looking 
gravely on at the getting of supper and at 
her father’s face. 

Pretty soon good Mrs. Rood, said, “ Mabel, 
did you leave that door open when you 
came in a little while ago ? Seems to me 
there’s a great rush of air ’round my feet.” 

Well,” said the farmer, who was in his 
shirt-sleeves, I was thinking of that myself, 
wife. I don’t know but the old house is 
getting leaky.” 

Mabel’s eyes had turned toward the door 
at her mother’s first words. Perceiving that 
it was slightly ajar, she got up from her 
chair and took two or three steps in its 
direction, then stopped with a little shiver 
of alarm — fancying the door trembled as if 
there was some one behind it. The door 
came suddenly open and with a great cry 
of Will I Will 1 ” Mabel was holding her 
brother with both arms and nestling her 
head down in his neck. 


142 


WILL ROOD'S FRIENDSHIP. 


Old Mr. Eood dropped his newspaper and 
stared through his spectacles in utter be- 
wilderment, for a few seconds, before he 
recognized this unannounced visitor. Mrs. 
Rood, wilji both hands full of coffee-pot and 
a plafe of meat and potatoes, stood midway 
between the table and stove, so bewildered 
by this sudden apparition of her son, that 
she was unable to set down her burdens or 
find her tongue. 

Bless my old eyes I is this really you. 
Will ? " said the farmer, taking off his spec- 
tacles and hurrying across the floor ; “ Mabel, 
child, don't hug Will so, — I want a chance 
at him myself. My son ! " 

How full of joy they were at seeing him ! 

Mamma, mamma," shouted Mabel, “it's 
Will 1 Don't you know ? " 

“My great tall boy!" s'aid the mother, 
fondly, putting her hands on his shoulder 
and kissing him. “ How can I believe my 


HOME. 


14o 


eyes? Do look, father, and see how he^s 
grown ! ” 

How proud they were of him I This glad- 
ness, so evident in everything they said 
and did, lightened Will’s heavy heart some- 
what. But how would they feel whefl they 
knew all? Oh, how could he ever tell 
them? How could he endure to throw a 
shadow over all their rejoicing? Yet it 
must be done. 

There, mother, the supper’s getting 
cold,” said the farmer, rather more averse 
to showing his pride and delight ; “ I guess 
Will’s hungry enough by this time. Bode 
since morning, haven’t ye ? ” 

Since the middle of the forenoon,” said 
Will ; but I’m not very hungry.” 

Though the mother was hardly able to 
take her eyes off her son, she started at 
this suggestion. Will had come home and 
was hungry. This was joy onough for 


144 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


ODce. Nothing could be too good for their 
tall, manly, noble boy ; the best of the house 
must come forth. 

While mother Kood bustled between the 
buttery and table, Mabel climbed to her old 
place, in her brother’s lap, and the old 
farmer, forgetting all about his paper, looked 
on with a delighted face, and a conscious- 
ness that this boy of his was wonderfully 
unlike the deacon’s Zebulon, or Uncle Nat 
Frisbie’s Sam. Looking at him, the farmer 
could not quite contain himself after all, 
and shuffled into the buttery to whisper 
to mother Rood, 

I declare, wife, does it seem as if that 
could be our boy? I never see such a 
change afore in anybody. I wonder if 
young Shirwyn looks any smarter or no- 
bler?” 

“ There, father,” said Mrs. Rood, her face 
catching a glow from the golden honey 


HOME. 


145 


over which she was bending, “ don^t talk 
to me about being foolish. Better wait and 
see whether the handsomeness is all on the 
outside or not.^^ 

Just as if her own heart was not all the 
while swelling with the same thoughts 
which he had given utterance to I 

“ Well,” said she, as they came out of the 
buttery, “ I believe supper is ready. Come 
Will and Mabel.” 

They sat down at the table. After the 
blessing, conversation went on steadily, the 
love and joy of father and mother showing 
forth in every word, look and action. Will 
trembled, seeing how they loved him and 
how much he was to their lives. He had 
tried to deserve it, he had worked hard to 
be worthy of their, love ; but now he had 
come home to shock them with truth which 
must be told. 

Seems to me you don’t eat very much,” 


146 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


said mother Rood, with a shade of anxiety 
on her face ; I’m afraid city-living hasn’t 
been good for your appetite. You used to 
like biscuits and honey. Now I think of it, 
I said to Mabel this afternoon, while I was 
making them, ^ How Wili used to like bis- 
cuits and butter and honey I ’ And here 
you are to help us eat them I Father, do 
help him to some more honey.” 

Perhaps,” said the farmer, with a side 
look at his son, “ it’s our plain spread that 
troubles him. He’s been used to silver and 
china and cut-glass, with all sorts of dainty 
things to put in them, you know, wife.” 

Father doesn’t mean that,’’ said Will ; 

I’ll show you how I can eat in a day or 
two ! ” Meanwhile, he allowed them to heap 
his plate, and ate for their pleasure rather 
than his own. 

In their happiness they had not thought 
to ask him why he came home thus sudden- 


HOME. 


147 


ly. That he had come home was happiness 
enough for the present. But mother Rood 
presently asked, 

Why didn’t Wayne come with you ? He 
has been agoing to visit us for a great 
while.” 

For a second or two Will hesitated ; then 
he said, I will tell you about it after sup- 
per, mother.” 

The father drifted oif into talk about the 
farm, while mother filled all the gaps with 
questions about the Shirwyns — unconscious- 
ly cutting Will to the heart at every word — 
and Mabel forgot her bread and butter in 
looking at her brother. 


CHAPTER X. . 

TELLING HIS STORY. 

A fter supper was over and the dishes 
were washed, and everything seemed 
to be quietly settled for the evening, Will 
felt that the time had come to tell his story, 
and reveal why he had thus suddenly re- 
turned. Fortunately the way was opened 
for this by mother Rood saying, as she 
took up her knitting, 

“Well, I’m right glad you came so soon, 
Will. Father was going to write down for 
you to come up to Thanksgiving, anyway ; 
but now you’ve saved him that trouble, 
and we’ll have all the more time to visit 
with you.” 

148 i* 

i 

> 


'1 


TELLING HIS STORY. 


149 


“ Yes,” said the farmer, “ it's no small 
trouble you've saved me. I'd rather do a 
whole day's chopping than write a letter. 
Now, Mabel, perhaps Will is too tired to 
have you climb up in his lap like that.” 

But Will held his sister in her old place, 
and nerved himself to begin his story. 
How he shrank from it, seeing what a gloom 
it would cast over their happiness, you 
may imagine. He began with, 

don't know but I should have put 
father to the trouble of writing a letter, 
after all, if something had not occurred 
to send me home so soon. I have something 
to tell you, and 1 want you to be patient 
with me till I am through, and prepare 
yourselves for the worst.” 

The old people were looking at him with 
wonder in their eyes, but with no suspicion 
that their son could return to them with 
anything but honor attaching to him. 


150 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


I came home,” said Will, making a great 
effort, “ because I have got through at Mr. 
Shirwjn’s. I am not to go back there any 
more. There has been trouble and it has 
come upon me.” 

He paused, almost choking, for they were 
looking at him with such bewilderment, 
utterly unable to comprehend that he was 
in disgrace. 

Why,” said mother Rood, at last, “what 
kind of trouble ? Is anybody dead ? ” 

“ No,” said Will, “ not that. I am in dis- 
grace. There has been a note forged in Mr. 
Shirwyn’s office and the crime is laid to me.” 
He meant to have broken the intelligence 
to them less abruptly, but somehow the 
whole bitter truth had come out at once. 
For a moment he covered his eyes/ not 
daring to look up, then, remembering all 
that he had yet to say, he exclaimed, “ Don’t 
judge me yet, father, mother. I have so 


TELLING HIS STORY. 


151 


much to tell you I — and I cannot tell you 
all that I want to either. I am as innocent 
of meaning to wrong Mr. Shirwyn, or of 
touching a penny that was not my own, as 
Mabel here.” Mother Rood drew a great 
sigh of relief, and the shocked, startled look 
that had been on the farmer’s face faded 
away. “ But,” continued Will, ‘‘ everything 
looks as if 1 had committed the crime. Mr. 
Shirwyn believes me guilt}", and I did copy 
his signature. I acknowledge that.” 

“ Copied his signature ? ” repeated the 
farmer slowly and with a troubled face. 

Forged it, you mean ? ” 

“ Yes, father,” said Will, “ I forged his 
signature, and that is what troubles me to 
explain to you. I can’t .tell all to you now, 
but it was done carelessly, without any 
thought of the consequences. I did it for a 
friend, to show him what I could do. Then 
it was used to draw a large amount of 


152 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


money, and the guilt and blaine all came 
upon me.” 

And you could not prove it otherwise ? ” 
said the farmer. 

Will was silent for a few seconds, then he 
said, Yes, I could have proved it other- 
wise.” • 

Why, Willie I ” exclaimed mother Rood ; 
^^’and you did not clear yourself?” 

No ; that is what troubles me. I want 
to tell you everything, but I cannot, now. 
I must keep back something, and ask you 
to trust me.” 

The farmer’s face was getting anxious 
and troubled again. He liked straight-for- 
wardness above all things. 

“ It seems to me,” he began, slowly rub- 
bing his hands together, that if you could 
prove your innocence easily, it would be 
best to do so — for your own sake, for all 
our sakes, A man can’t have too clear a 
reputation in these days.” 


TELLING HIS STORY. 


153 


Will colored, and was silent. 

“ Perhaps Will hasn’t told ns everything 
yet, father,” said Mrs. Rood, trying to 
smother her anxiety ; “ you know he wanted 
us to wait, and be patient till he was 
through.” 

“ I am patient,” said the farmer. “ I only 
want to know the truth. You know who 
drew this money. Will ? ” 

Yes, sir.” 

“ And you could prove this person’s 
guilt ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

There was a silence more significant than 
words. Mrs. Rood looked at her son, be- 
seeching him, with her eyes, to say more. 

“Perhaps I can’t make it clear to you, 
father, vrhy I thought it right to let the 
blame all come upon me,” said Will, “but 
I’ll try. I was afraid that if I brought such 
sudden ruin upon him, and exposed him 


154 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


before all his friends, that it would only 
harden him, and do no good at all — except 
to clear my own name. But if I wait pa- 
tiently, I think — I am pretty sure — that 
he will repent and confess all, and take all 
the disgrace off my name, and become the 
noble fellow he ought to be. Do I make 
it clear to you, father?”. 

The quick tears stood in the old man’s 
eyes. This bo}^ of his was made of strange 
metal, — something rarer than the common 
mould, he thought. He was not sure that 
he was up to his level ; this strange pro- 
ceeding touched him, but he was not quite 
certain that he appreciated all the beauty 
of such conduct. He looked up when the 
tears were dried in his eyes, saying, 

“ And the name of this person who has 
wronged you, my son?” 

At this point, Mabel, who had gradually 
been slipping out of her brother’s lap, under 


TELLING HIS STORY. 


155 


the impression that some evil had been or 
was going to be committed, ran to her 
mother. Will went over to his father’s 
chair, and said firmly, 

I can’t tell you anything more now, 
father. Perhaps never, — I don’t know, — 
but I am innocent* and I have never taken 
a penny that is not my ' own ” — here his 
voice faltered a little — ‘‘and if 1 could 
only know that you and mother trusted in 
me, it seems to me that I wouldn’t mind or 
care what the others thought, — at least, 
not much.” 

There was a hush in the little kitchen. 
Mrs. Rood’s needles stopped their clicking. 
At last the farmer cleared his throat and 
took Will’s hand in his own. How could he 
distrust his first-born ? — this brave, honest- 
eyed boy of his who was not afraid to look 
him in the face — who did not shrink under 
his gaze — who told his story so unfaltering- 
ly. Was this guilt ? 


156 


WILL rood’s FRIENDSfflP. 


God knows I don’t mistrust ye, Will — 
not in the least,” said he, in his hearty old 
voice, and as for your mother — ” 

“ Now, father,” said Mrs. Rood, depre- 
catingly, Will knows I don’t distrust him.” 
She got up, wiping her eyes with the corner 
of her gingham apron, and came around to 
their side of the stove ; and there the three 
stood, the love and confidence between them 
unshaken. 

A great load lifted from Will’s heart. 
When he was back in his chair, and Mabel 
had returned to him — nestling her head 
down on his breast in happy consciousness 
that the little cloud of trouble had blown 
over — he was so joyful and happy that it 
was quite useless to think of talking for a 
little while. Father and mother believed in 
him still j there was some one left to love 
him and trust in him. 

But after a while, father Rood began to 
grow impatient to know more of the affair. 


TELLING HIS STORY. 


157 


Seems to me,” said he, with a trifle of 
indignation in his voice, “ that Shirwyn has 
been plaguy hasty ^bout this business ! He 
might have took your word ^ and waited a 
little bit. 'Twouldn^t have hurt him, and it 
might save you a deal of trouble. I don’t 
like that in Shirwyn.” 

But Will made haste to say, I’ve reason 
to be very thankful to Mr. Shirwyn. He 
thinks me guilty and I don’t blame him, for 
it all looks as if I had wronged him. And 
he forgave me the loss of the money which 
he supposed I had taken, and said that it 
should all be a secret outside of his own 
family. That’s a great deal, father.” 

And what did Wayne say ? ” said mother 
Rood, remembering what a warm, impulsive 
heart young Shirwyn had. 

^^He — I — I did not see Wayne before I 
came away,” said Will ; he was gone to 
recitations.” 


158 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


Well, I suppose that suited you best,^^ 
said Mrs. Eood, with something like a sigh ; 
“ but it would seem strange to me to see you 
dread to meet him, — you were always such 
friends.’^ 

“ I did not dread to meet him,’^ said Will ; 
“ he would have known that I was innocent, 
I shall never fear that Wayne will think me 
guilty.’^ 

The Roods little dreamed what truth was 
in this remark. 

“ And the rest of the Shirwyns ? 

I saw none of them,” said Will, ex- 
cepting the little girl about MabeFs age. 
The others were out for the forenoon. I did 
not want to see them. Perhaps I had no 
right to, since Mr. Shirwyn forbade me to 
be anything but a stranger to his family.” 

Did he do that ? ” said the farmer, 
hastily. 

“ Yes, sir. You forget that I am just the 


TELLING HIS STORY. 


159 


same as a criminal in his eyes, father, — a 
creature with whom he wishes none of his 
family to come in contact.” 

A shadow came over his face. What 
were they doing in the bright, pleasant 
home from which he had been banished, at 
this moment? Were they all thinking of 
him with aversion and horror ? Would they 
miss or regret his absence ? He wished he 
knew. 

Well,” said the farmer, after a long 
silence, there's room enough in the world 
for us all. The country is broad and free 
for every one, when the city crowds 'em out. 
I don't fear for you anywhere, my son, — not 
a bit.” 

And it seems so good to have him home 
before Thanksgiving,” said mother Rood, 
brightly ; “ I shall take twice as much com- 
fort now, making preparations. And it does 
us all good to look at your face. Will. We 


160 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


want you at home with us ; you’ve worked 
too hard this summer. Now you can have a 
rest.” 

^‘Yes,” said Will, with more hopefulness 
in his face than there had been in it since 
his return. I can rest till this person I 
have mentioned repents and does me justice. 
Then my name will be clear again ! ” 

But if that time never comes, my son ? ” 
said the farmer. 

It will come ! ” said Will, confidently j 
'4t may be a good while first, but it will 
certainly come at last.” 

Both husband and wife took heart at his . 
confidence, and at this point the old clock 
in the kitchen corner struck nine. Mother 
Hood rolled up her knitting. 

“We keep the old hours, you see. Will,” 
she said, with a smile ; “ and I guess you’ve 
been through enough to-day to be glad to 
go to bed at nine o’clock too. I declare I 


TELLING HIS STORY. 


161 


if Mabel isn^t fast asleep in your arms. 
Wake up here, Mab ! — it’s trundle-bed time. 
You don’t know how the child pined for 
you the first few weeks after you left us. 
I suspect we all did, as for that matter. 
Your trunk? Father will help you up with 
that. Good night, my son,” kissing him 
fervently, “ wake up in the morning to begin 
your vacation. It will be a holyday to all 
of us.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


AT THE RICH MAN^S HOUSE. 

S Will saw none of the Shirwyns^, after 



his talk with Mr. Shirwyn at the office, 
the family remained in ignorance of what 
had occurred through the day. Mr. Shirwyn 
came home at night as usual, looking rather 
grave and weary, and alone. He met the 
bright, smiling faces that greeted him with 
no smile upon his own. 

Pa is worried about business to-night, 
I know,” said Nina, as she received the kiss 
he always gave her upon returning home ; 

lePs have tea at once. It is all ready, and 
wedl sit down now. Come, Wayne I ” « 

They sat down at the pleasant tea-table, 


AT THE RICH MAN’s HOUSE. 


163 


Mrs. Shirwyn enquiring why WilPs work 
kept him so much later than usual. Mr. 
Shirwyn made no reply until after he had 
asked the blessing, and the tea had been 
poured; then, nerving himself to perform 
the disagreeable task, he said, in answer to 
his wife^s question, 

“ My dear, IVe some very sad news for 
you all. I expect it will shock you as it 
did myself. Will has deceived us.’^ 

A breathless silence followed, every eye 
at the table turned • upon him, and every 
face anxiously waiting for explanation. It 
was something very unusual for Mr. Shirwyn 
to falter, as he did, in beginning his dis- 
closure. Sorrow and reluctance shadowed 
his face. 

“ In saying that Will has deceived us,^^ he 
continued, I mean that he has proved un- 
worthy of the love and confidence we gave 
him, that he is not the upright, pure-hearted 


164 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


boy we thought him. I made the discovery 
this morning; or rather Barstow did, that 
quite a large amount had been drawn upon 
a forged check. Will has confessed the 
forgery and left for home this forenoon.’^ 

In spite of her usual self-command, the 
tea-cup which Mrs. Shirwyn had raised half- 
way to her lips, fell from her hand and 
shivered in pieces on her plate. Nina 
leaned back in her chair, pale and sick j but 
attention was all directed to Wayne, who, in 
half-rising from his chair, fell backward and 
dropped heavily on the floor, where he lay 
white and still. 

“ Wayne has fainted I screamed Nina. 
O father, don’t say this dreadful news is 
true ! What shall I do, mamma ? ” 

Bing for Blecker,” said Mrs. Shirwyn, 
as she bent over her son. “ Arthur,” to her 
husband, help me undo l;iis collar and neck- 
tie. It’s only a faint, but Wayne is not 
strong or well lately.” 


AT THE RICH MAN’S HOUSE. 


165 


Mr. Shirvvjn had expected some demon- 
stration on the part of Wayne, and was not 
greatJy surprised, only very sorrowful. As 
he bent with his wife over their unconscious 
son, she looked up with eyes full of tears 
and said, entreatingly, 

“ Tell me that this is not true, Arthur ! — 
that there is some hope of his being inno- 
cent.” 

“ It is all too true,” he sadly answered. 

Mrs. Shirwyn’s tears fell upon Wayne’s 
face. 

Blecker came in, pausing a minute in the 
doorway with astonishment at the strange 
sight before him, then Wayne was laid upon 
the sofa, where he soon revived and opened 
his eyes. At first he looked up with wonder 
and bewilderment in his eyes, then, as the 
remembrance of what had occurred flashed 
upon him, he covered his face from sight 
and groaned. 


166 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


<< 0, I wish I could die I ” he gasped out. 

Though Wayne was always impulsive and 
apt to give expression to his strong emo- 
tions, Mr. Shirwyn seemed to' think this 
going too far. 

‘‘ Your friend is unworthy of such sorrow, 
Wayne,” he said. I want you to be strong 
and forget him as something unworthy 
of your friendsTiip.” 

Oh, father,” said Nina, entreatingly, 
“^on’t say that — just yet. See how Wayne 
suffers I Poor Wayne I ” she added, pity- 
ingly, pulling his hands away from his face, 
stroking his hair back and kissing his fore- 
head. Perhaps it will all come right after 
all, and then Will will come back to us. I 
don’t believe he can be guilty, do you, 
Wayne ? There’s some mistake, and by and 
by it will be righted, and then we shall all 
be happy again. But now 1 — ” 

Here Nina burst into tears, and laying her 


AT THE RICH MAN’S HOUSE. 


167 


face beside Wayne’s, sobbed as if her heart 
was breaking. How many of the tears 
were shed for Will, and how many for Wayne, 
it would not be easy to tell. 

Husband and wife looked on, one with a 
sad face, the other with tearful eyes. And 
here Mother Bunch, who, all the time, had 
been strangely silent, under the impression 
that something terrible had befallen Will, 
and was going to befall the rest, came 
forward to relate how Will kissed her with 
tears in his eyes that morning, when he went 
away ^^with the big trunk.” Then she 
began to howl dolorously. 

Oh,” exclaimed Nina, “ I don’t believe 
he could do such thing, do you, Wayne? 
Wayne ! why don’t you say you think he 
is innocent? — why don’t you say that you 
kmw he is innocent ? ” 

Wayne’s face contracted with such a 
spasm of pain, that Nina was shocked and 
frightened. 


168 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


“ Forgive .jae,” she said, tenderly ; I 
forget how much more he was to you than 
the rest of us. But oh, Wayne, we will 
never doubt him, will we ? We’ll trust in 
him till it all comes right again.” 

“ Nina, my dear child,” said Mr. Shirwyn, 
sorrowfully, ‘^your confidence in his inno- 
cence will all be in vain. You forget that 
he confessed his guilt.” 

But Nina did not seem to renounce him 
then. ^ 

As Mother Bunch’s lamentations did not 
cease, Mrs. Shirwyn led her away to the 
nursery, and the room settled down to some- 
thing like quietness. The tea-table, glitter- 
ing with its silver and crystal, stood de- 
serted. No one had any more liea-rt for 
supper. Mr. Shirwyn took up some letters 
and papers which Blecker had brought in, 
examining them with a sad face, and uneasy, 
restless manner. Nina sat on the sofa trying 


AT THE RICH MAN’S HOUSE. 


169 


to comfort Wayne, who seemed to be hardly 
out of his swoon. 

Mrs. Shirwyn, on her return from the 
nursery, took up a book and made an at- 
tempt at reading, but the book was soon 
laid down, and her chair wheeled around 
by Wayne and Nina. There was no use 
in trying to disguise the truth. This blow 
fell heavily. It was almost like having the 
disgrace and shame come upon Wayne. 

Thus they sat for nearly an hour, till Mr. 
Shirwyn, pushing away letters and papers, 
joined their circle. 

I did not know,^^ he said, sadly, how 
dear Will had become to us. I see, now, 
how much we shall miss him. It is like 
losing a son.^^ 

It does not seem possible,^^ Mrs. Shirwyn 
said, “ that such a noble, upright, pure-heart- 
ed boy, as I knew Will to be, could thus 
fall. 1 do not see what could have tempted 


170 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


him. He spent all his evenings at home, 
he never went away, except with us, and 
what could he want of money ? ” 

Mr. Shirwyn had not thought of that. 

It is all very mysterious,” he said, with 
a shake of his head ; “ his conduct puzzled 
me when I confronted him with the check. 
I never saw innocence so well counterfeited, 
and he denied having taken a penny of my 
money to the last.” 

“Did he do that?” said Mrs. Shirwyn, 
earnestly ; “ oh, I should have been tempted 
to believe him, Arthur. It seems to me I 
would have trusted him a little longer,— 
long enough to have seen what came of 
this.” 

“ You forget, my dear,” said her husband, 
“ that he confessed the forgery ; then, before 
I let him go, I went to the bank where the 
check was cashed, and the teller was ready 
to swear that either my son or Will drew 


AT THE RICH MAN^S HOUSE. 


171 


the amount. It must have been Will of 
course. So, though I long to do so, I cannot 
possibly see how we can look upon him as 
anything but guilty.^^ 

Wayne shivered and groaned. Mr. Shir- 
wyn looked sympathizingly at his son’s 
white face, and moved close to the sofa, in- 
tent upon consoling him. 

“ My dear boy,” he said, comfortingly, “ I 
want you to bear up and be strong. If this 
friend of yours could prove himself so un- 
grateful, he is not worth sorrowing so about. 
Think of what you have left, and keep up a 
light heart. I don’t blame you for being 
shocked, — it is a great blow for us all — 
a great blow.” 

He took Wayne’s cold hands in his, and 
pressed them gently. 

There are times when to have kindness 
heaped upon one is to suffer the most ex- 
quisite torture. This Wayne Shirwyn had 


172 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


to endure. Guilty, shivering with remorse 
and dread, at one moment love for Will 
almost forcing confession from his lips, while 
his fierce pride crushed it down the next, 
he lay there, an example of the perfect, 
abject slavery to which evil reduces its vic- 
tims. 

“ I know,” continued the father, utterly 
unconscious of the anguish he was causing 
his son, “ that everything conspired to make 
Will dearer than a brother to you ; but you 
are young and will soon recover from this. 
And think of what hosts of friends, young 
and old, you have left to you. My son, pray 
cheer up and be stronger than this.” 

“ Come, dear Wayne, open your eyes and 
be brighter,” said Nina j “ we’re going to 
look on a brighter side than father does, 
and it won’t do, to be cast down. Come, 
Wayne, look cheerful once more I ” 

She put her face down to his, entreatingly. 


AT THE RICH MAN'S HOUSE. 


173 


Wayne felt as if he should suffocate. A 
great pain throbbed through his temples, 
and a keener pain tortured, his heart. He ^ 
was utterly wretched. Not yet recovered 
from the faintness which the shock of the 
news had produced, he felt, some of the 
time, as if his life was slowly slipping away 
from him, and for a moment would be glad ; 
then, remembering that if he died Will’s 
character would never be cleared, he would 
rouse himself up, and gasp for breath and 
long for life. Yet no confession of the truth 
escaped him. He wanted to wait a little 
longer — perhaps till morning. Evil held 
him securely in its snare. 

But in all this the Shirwyns caught 
no inkling of the truth. They witnessed 
Wayne’s distress with sadness, and were 
somewhat puzzled at some of the phases of 
his grief; but as Wayne had been more or 
less a puzzle to them for a long time, they 
thought little of it. ♦ 


174 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Mr. Shirwjn continued to talk kindly and 
cheerfully, Mrs. Shirwyn was sympathizing 
^and attentive, and Nina the model of a com- 
forting sister, till at last Wayne could bear 
it no longer. He roused up with a haggard, 
despairing face. 

Don’t say any more to me,” he begged; 

I’m faint — ill ! — I can’t bear it. I would 
like to go to bed.” 

Blecker was called. ' 

No, let me go alone,” said Wayne ; I 
want to be alone.” 

^‘But you are weak and faint,” said his 
mother, anxiously ; see, you can hardly 
walk straight. Blecker, you may help him 
up stairs. Wayne, I insist upon it I ” 

So Wayne was obliged to yield, and was 
half-carried up stairs by the faithful old 
servant, who, unbeknowrr to his young mas- 
ter, slept in the hall just beside his door 
that night. 

As the door closed 'behind the two, Mr. 


AT THE RICH MAN’S HOUSE. 


175 


Shirwyn turned to his *wife with an almost 
despairing face. 

I don^t know what is to become of 
Wayne,” he said in a troubled voice ; some 
of his actions are very mysterious. He 
seems to have no control over his feelings, 
nor can he bear any shock or surprise. We 
have lost our merry, light-hearted boy.” 

“ He has not been very well all Summer,” 
said Mrs. Shirwyn, and this shock seems 
to have completely unnerved him. But he 
will be better in the morning, I hope.” 

^^Yes, but I want him well The Storers 
are going to Havana next week, for the 
Winter. Hugh is going too, and would be 
company for Wayne. I think change of 
scene and climate will do him, good, and 
if you think best, my dear, I will engage 
a passage for him at once.” 

^^It may be best,” said Mrs. Shirwyn, 
thoughtfully, “but I would r|ther consult 


176 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Wayne first. I will see him about it in the 
morning.” 

Here Nina came up to kiss her mother 
good-night. When she went to her father 
she put her arms about his neck, and after 
she had kissed him, whispered. 

Would you let Will come back if you 
thought he was repentant — if he seemed 
to be changed, and bound to commit no more 
— more evil ? ” 

a My girl has a kind heart,” said the 
father, fondly, “ but,” — after a pause — “I 
must employ only those whom I can :^rust.” 

Nina went away with a sad face. 


t 


CHAPTER XII. 


THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 

TATAYNE, parting from Blecker at the 
’ ^ door, entered his room with slow, 
heavy steps, and threw himself as usual 
upon the sofa. Here he might groan with- 
out being heard ; here . he might have his 
misery all to himself. But he did not rest 
long. A little fire flickered and gleamed in 
the grate to keep out the chill of the Autumn 
nights, and its light flashed at times over the 
floor. Wayne lay — faint and sick with 
wretchedness — and watched it, and by and 
by caught the gleam of something on the 
carpet within the circle of the pale fire-light. 
He cared little about it in the extremity of 
177 


178 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


his anguish, but lay and sometimes watched^ 
it flash and sparkle when he opened his 
eyes between his throbs of pain. 

When the pillow had grown hot to his 
face, and he could no longer endure his 
present position, he wearily rose, and as he 
passed across the floor, stooped and picked 
up the glittering thing that lay there. It 
proved to be a little golden trinket which 
he had given Will. It had evidently been 
dropped in the hurry of departure. Look- 
ing at it was sufficient to set all Wayne^s 
thoughts whirling anew. There were other 
signs of WilPs hurried departure, — an old 
letter or two dropped upon the carpet, an 
open drawer with but half of its contents 
taken out, some books lying in a chair, left 
behind through haste or for want of room. 
And there, in its accustomed place, hung 
the silken lounging cap which Nina had 
netted for him with her own hands. 


THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 179 


Wayne looked at all these things and 
at the empty bed, and shuddered. The room 
was lonely and desolate. Before, when op- 
pressed by his troubled heart, he had found 
some comfort in looking at WilPs unclouded, 
cheerful face. Now he was all alone, — 
alone with his sin and guilt and misery. 

And at this time, far over hill and valley, 
some one in trouble came into his room also. 
It was a little room, plain and unfinished, 
under the eaves of the low, old farm-house. 
There were no paintings and marbles to 
adorn it, no glowing grate, no, soft, rich 
carpet, nothing luxurious. An uncurtained 
window let in the faint light from the sky 
and stars. But Will Rood, thinking of noth- 
ing but the words with which father and 
mother had made him happy, came into it 
and sat down by the uncurtained window, 
and was so rich at that moment, that he 
missed nothing of the richness to which he 


180 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


was accustomed. This was home. The old 
people below trusted in him. These, for the 
present, were riches enough. 

Sitting by the window he looked up to 
the great company of stars, and, looking at 
the stars, his thoughts wei^t down to the 
city and Wayne — Wayne, who had wronged 
him. 

With his heart so warm and glad, it was 
an easier matter to think of Wayne’s faith- 
lessness, than it had been while riding home 
in the stage-coach, in an agony of uncer- 
tainty and doubt. He could look the whole 
matter over calmly now,' and see how 
Wayne, driven to desperation, and too proud 
to bear the punishment which results from 
transgression, had seized upon the forged 
check as a means to rid himself of (so Will 
thought) the villianous-looking man, who 
held such mysterious power over him. 

Perhaps Wayne did not mean to wrong 


THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


181 


him, he thought. Perhaps he used the 
cheeky and hoped and expected its spuri- 
ousness would never be detected. Perhaps 
he intended, in case such an event occurred, 
to step forward and confess his guilt ; he 
might even now have done so. Will thought, 
with a thrill at his heart. 

But could he forgive Wayne? If this, 
faithless friend held his peace and never 
acknowledged his sin, — if he allowed the 
shadow of guilt, with all its blighting con- 
sequences, to rest where it had fallen, could 
he forgive him then ? Oh, that was a hard 
question ! 

But when, after a little longer gazing at 
the peaceful stars, he knelt down to say his 
prayers, Wayne was remembered as of old, 
and with a heart too full of Jove and yearn- 
ing to hold the hate and malice of an unfor- 
giving spirit. 

And the stars, looking in at another win- 


182 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


dow, where the filmy lace had been pulled 
away, saw a far different picture. Here, as 
at the other window, a face looked out into 
the night, but a face in which there was no 
hope and only despair. Wayne, feeling that 
the darkness would bring no sleep for him, 
had pulled the sofa across the deep window, 
and thrown himself there, where he could 
look out on the night and up at the stars. 

The stars never seem to have anything in 
common with a guilty heart, and Wayne 
found little pleasure in looking at them. He 
preferred the blank of darkness that hung 
over roof and street. Yet even in the 
street the lamps winked and blinked like 
solitary eyes peering at him. 

As the shock and pain of his father^s dis- 
closure gradually wore off, his remorse and 
anguish grew keener. Wayne was not 
hardened in sin. Though his pride and 
weakness had led him a long and devious 


THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


183 


way, till at last he had fallen, his perceptions 
of everything pure, noble and generous, 
remained clear as ever. Neither had his 
warm and naturally noble impulses vanished, 
and now, thinking of Will Rood’s heroic 
generosity, he appreciated it to the utmost. 
And thinking, he groaned and tossed un- 
easily, and could find no ray of hope or 
comfort anywhere. 

This friend of his had deliberately taken 
upon his shoulders the guilt and shame of 
an evil deed, to shelter such a poor, weak, 
worthless creature as himself. Why had he 
done this ? Wayne’s heart told him why. 

“ Oh,” he groaned, in an agony of remorse 
and grief, “ I was not worth such a sacrifice, 
— not worth shielding a moment. I wish 
he had never, never done it ! I wish it had 
all come upon me at once and crushed me 
instead of him. I could have borne that 
better than this.” 


184 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


Any other trouble seems easier to be 
borne than the one under which we are 
suffering. Wayne Shirwyn, suddenly dis- 
graced in the eyes of his friends, and forced 
by another to reveal his deception, would 
have been a recldess, desperate soul • Wayne 
Shirwyn, left to repent and make his own 
confession, there was some hope for. 

But now there was only suffering and 
despair for his portion. Some of the time 
he lay faint and sick with anguish, at the 
thought of this trouble which he had 
brought upon his too faithful friend. In 
spite of his knowledge of WilPs greatness 
of heart, it seemed to him that, for such a 
wrong as he had wrought, there could be 
no forgiveness. Such heroism and generos- 
ity on one side, such weakness and selfish- 
ness on the other! Oh, it was no use to 
hope for forgiveness. But he had done 
nothing to deserve forgiveness. He knew 


THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


185 


that, and he was so weak and proud, and 
there was such small hope that he -could 
ever get the strength and- courage to make 
a confession and put the guilt where it be- 
longed, that he cowered and shrank down 
among his pillows and hopelessly groaned. 

The late-rising moon, pushing up from 
' behind the hill and over the wood tops, 
shone in at the uncurtained window and 
found Will, though abed, still awake. The 
many events of the day had somehow driven 
sleep away, and assured of the love and con- 
fidence of those who cared for him at home, 
his thoughts went back to the city and of 
course to the Shirwyns. He longed very 
much to know whether they had all cast 
him out of their hearts, as Mr. Shirwyn had 
cast him from his home, or whether Wayne 
had come forward and taken the conse- 
quences of his own guilt. He wondered if 
Mrs. Shirwyn and Nina would readily judge 


186 


WILL EOOD’S friendship. 


him guilty, or whether they would cling to 
a hope of his innocence. And Wayne — 
guilty Wayne — how 'would he receive the 
news ? How would he bear himself before 
them all ? What was he thinking of at this 
moment, all alone in his room, with the 
moon shining in ? Oh, if he might only look 
in, as the moon looked in, and know all. 

But, whether Wayne ever laid bare the 
truth or not, he had made up his mind con- 
cerning Wayne. He would forgive him and 
never do aught to ruin his good name ; he 
would find work again, and win for himself 
friends and a good name, for, as father said, 
there was room enough in the world for 
everybody. Then, though he never saw 
Wayne again- nor heard aught from him, he 
would still have the happy consciousness of 
knowing that he had never given him other 
than a helping hand. And such a message 
he would have been glad to sent to him on 


THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


187 


the fleecy clouds that were drifting over the 
hills, cityward. 

The moon, climbing over the roofs, shone 
in at Wayne Shirwyn’s window and found 
him still awake, — too wretched to sleep, too 
remorseful to And any rest. The night was 
long — frightfully long — yet he dreaded 
the dawn. He felt that with the coming of 
daylight over the roofs and spires, his de- 
cision must be made : either the guilt must 
rest forever where it had fallen, or he must 
confess all. Now, as he felt this, a desire 
to do right struggled in Wayne’s heart. He 
was not so selfish but that he desired to 
show Will’s honor bright before every one, 
but this seemed an utter impossibility be- 
cause of his pride and weakness. To save 
Will he must ruin (as he thought) himself. 
How could he ever do this ? Oh, for a tithe 
of his friend’s strength and generosity that 
did not waver — did not flinch under a 
harder trial than his own I 


188 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


He wept hot, bitter tears in the pillow 
over his own weakness. 

But to persons who, like Wayne Shirwyn, 
have been gradually drawn into the slavery 
of sin and deception, there comes a time 
when either they throw off the chains of 
their bondage, or allow them to be newly 
riveted for bondage perpetual. This time 
had come to Wayne, and though so weak 
and fearfully tempted to yield, he clung 
resolutely to his faint hope that by and by 
he should get courage enough to do his 
duty. 

The moon rose higher and shone down 
full upon him, and lighted the room well. 
His sleepless eyes noted everything that 
hinted of Will. 

How many times he had seen him with 
that silken cap, which hung over the sea- 
painting, upon his head. And the books in 
the chair, the letters on the floor, the empty 
bed I — ah, it only made his temples throb 


THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


189 


harder to look. He worjd turn over and 
try to sleep. The effort to sleep* lasted 
nearly a minute ; then he was suffering as 
keenly as ever. What, sacrifice his friend, — 
the friend*who nearly lost his life for him, 
who had always given up his own comfort 
for his ease, who had been everything that 
one friend could be to another, — to make 
his own honor look bright ? No I no ! — he 
would never do that I Then came another 
question. What, sacrifice his pride, degrade 
himself to the level of thieves and robbers, 
destroy the happiness of father, mother and 
sister, and be forever lowered in their eyes, 
for the sake of one who had voluntarily 
assumed the guilt of the deed and who would 
probably never reveal the real truth ? Oh, 
no ! he could never do that I 

Thus he was torn between desire to do 
right and the gratification of his own selfish- 
ness. The moon climbed up so that it no 


190 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


longer shone in at the window, and the 
room began to grow dim again. Wayne lay 
and watched the east whitening over the 
house-tops, with much the same feeling that 
the doomed criminal sees the dawjiing of the 
day of death. But he lay still now, fairly 
worn and wearied into quietness. A sharp 
pain shot through and through his temples, 
and he grew hot and feverish. Still the 
question was not decided, and would not be 
still. It kept ringing in his weary brain, — 
“ Choose between yourself and Will — 

Qioose ! — Choose ! ” Yes, it was time to 

choose, he knew. He lay white and motion- 
less for half an hour, and in that time of si- 
lence came the struggle — a fiercer struggle 
than ever Wayne knew again ; and then, 
with a groan at the pain it cost him, he 

sobbed out — just as the white light of 

dawn was looking in — “0 Will I Will 1 — 
I will tell all.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


LOOKING FOR A LETTER. 

D ays at the farm went by somewhat 
slowly at first. Will was looking for a 
letter that did not come. But after the first 
excitement over the event which sent him 
home in disgrace was past, he took up the 
old home life with a keen zest for all its 
hearty pleasures and comforts. There was 
no end to the joy which the woods and 
meadows and hills held for him. 

The crops were coming home day after 
day, and the Thanksgiving feast was not a 
great way off. The apples had been picked, 
but on the orchard grass their gold and red 

and brown shone- out, and they scented the 
191 


192 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


air in the cool, dewy Autumn evenings. 
The hills looked warm and sunny in their 
inellow-hued garbs. The very old lichen- 
grown stone walls and fences, grown full 
of golden-rod, blackberry vines and elder 
bushes, were a delight. There were great 
heaps of cider apples in the lots, waiting 
to go to mill, oxen plodding home with 
high-heaped carts of potatoes and turnips, 
men and boys at work in the sunshiny fields, 
and joy and peace and comfort everywhere. 
Neither was there a hearty word of welcome 
home wanting. 

When country people are glad to see one, 
they are not generally backward about dis- 
closing their pleasure. So, when it was 
known that Will bad returned. Uncle Sam 
Hull, or Mr. Seth Barnes, or Amasa Roper, 
or any of the score of complacent old farm- 
ers who lived in brother Rood’s neighbor- 
hood, found it convenient to call for a drink 


LOOKING FOR A LETTER. 


193 


of water when passing, and thus have a look 
at, and a talk with, this boy which the country 
had given to the city. 

“Wanted to see if brother Rood hadn’t 
missed it, sendin’ his boy off so. But I 
declare, sister Rood ” — taking a critical sur- 
vey of the subject of conversation — “1 don’ 
know but you was ’bout right after all. Haint 
got above yer old neighbors, hev ye. Will ? 
Now they say you’re just about the smartest 
penman in town. S'pose ye can beat Parson 
Hubbard?” 

Will, who remembered the old minister’s 
crabbed, unreadable handwriting, gave his 
mother a look out of the corners of his eyes, 
but did not put forward any claim to superi- 
ority. 

“Well, it’s a good thing to be able to get 
a livin’ easy. Land knows 1 don’t grudge 
it to ye. Cornin’ down to see our folks afore 
ye go back? My wife’s got some punkin 


194 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


pies in the works, an’ you’d better happen 
’round some o’ these days. That Shir — 
Shir — Shir something fellow that came up 
from the city with ye that Summer, said her 
punkin pies was prime. He’d ought to 
know, I reckon. Wall, this won’t pick up 
my potatoes. How’s your man’s potatoes 
turn out, sister Rood ? Good ? So do mine 
— tolerable; been a good year for potatoes. 
Good mornin’ — come down an’ see us when 
ye can. Will.” 

When a week had elapsed. Will had 
shaken hands with nearly all his old ac- 
quaintances, and been asked to come down 
and see us ” numberless times. Yet no 
letter came up from the city. Was Wayne’s 
heart pitiless ? 

Indian Summer days came on in the 
matchless beauty of their calm, rich, ripe 
splendor. The country was glorious — the 
days and nights perfect. Father Rood de- 


LOOKING FOR A LETTER. 


195 


dared that his son should take no part in 
the farm-work, of which there was now little 
to do ; but Will found time enough for work 
and rest and ramble too. He went nutting 
with Mabel through the dim, yellow, fra- 
grant woods. He rambled over the familiar 
spots where he had strayed and fished be- 
fore school and the city took him away. 
Once more he was a farm-boy, driving the 
cows in the morning to the mile-away pas- 
ture, and bringing them at dusk when he 
came up from his nightly visit to the post- 
office. This was the pleasantest part of the 
day to him — -in spite of the regular disap- 
pointment at the post-office — when over 
the dreamy blue of the hills the lights of 
sunset burned, and he, following the lowing 
cows homeward, wondered why he had 
never found the country so broad and fair 
and lovely before. 

One evening he met the Deacon and Zebu- 


196 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Ion riding on a load of turnips. The dea- 
con whoahed to his oxen and came to a 
standstill. 

Wall, really,” said he, “ how d’ye do ? 
Zebulon said you’d got home, an’ I thought 
I see ye to meetin’ las’ Sunday with your 
folks. Wall — how you’ve growed I Been 
pretty tol’ably healthy down there this Sum- 
mer, hain’t it? I mus’ say you’re lookin’ 
well — right well. What kind of a place do 
you find the great city, anyway ? ” 

Will was not certain which question the 
deacon wished answered first, but took the 
last one at a venture. • 

I found it a very pleasant place,” he 
said ; they were very kind to me down 
there.” 

Really — I want to know, now 1 But 
wasn’t, you fearfully tempted by Satan to* 
go astray ? ” 

Wjll smiled a little. 


LOOKING FOR A LETTER. 


197 


“ No more than at home, I think, Deacon 
Wilcox. It was different with me than with 
most boys — 1 had a home and friends to go 
to at once.’^ 

“ Yes, I know,” said the deacon, “youVe 
been wonderfully favored by Providence. 
I never see the beat on’t — never. An^ 
you're act'ally drivin' the cows up ! Wall, 
Zebulon said you wore better clothes ev'ry 
day than he wore to meetin', an' we kinder 
mistrusted you wouldn't be for s'ilin' 'em 
much ; but I don' know but you're about the 
same Will Rood that you was afore. Zebu- 
Ion, why don't you say somethin' to him ? '' 
Zebulon looked sheepish and held his 
peace. 

That's a fine heifer, browsin' by them 
burdocks over there. Your father's stock 
is cornin' up,'' said the deacon, approvingly. 

Wall, I s'pose he ken afford to bring in the 
new kinds. They say you've sent home 


198 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


consid’able money first and last this Sum- 
mer.” The deacon picked up his goad. 

Wall, I hope ’twon’t set ye up. Prosperi- 
ty’s a hard thing to bear an’ you’re young — 
very young. I won’t bender ye any 
longer — Gee up ! — Come over and see 
us — Go ’long ! — Tell your father 1 ken 
spare him a few of them seedlin’ potatoes, 
if he wants.” 

Deacon, Zebulon and turnips rolled on 
into the dusk, and Will hurried after the 
cows. 

Still there was no letter. Was Wayne 
never going to repent ? 

Mother Eood watched her son’s face with 
some anxiety. That he went to the post- 
office every night she did not know at first, 
but soon her mother’s heart divined the 
reason of his long absence, and she had a 
way of meeting him at the door, when he 
came up the dusky path from turning the 


LOOKING FOR A LETTER. 


199 


COWS into the yard, to see whether his 
face boded good news or disappointment. 
Though his face was never despairing, it 
had a grave look about the mouth that 
troubled her. Perhaps his hope was failing 
him, she thought. 

But Will did not cast away his faith in 
Wayne. He must wait — patiently. 

The Indian Summer was but fleeting, and 
two or three heavy frosts and chilly days 
turned the earth brown and sere. Thanks- 
giving was near at hand, and nearly two 
weeks had elapsed since his return. Still 
he went nightly down to the post-oflice — 
though the cows were no longer driven to 
pasture, and father and mother must know 
what he was looking and waiting for so 
anxiously — and came back always empty- 
handed. The old spectacled post-master at 
the corner grew somewhat anxious as well 
as mother Rood, and would liked to have 


200 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


gratified the patient, oft-repeated, “ A letter 
for me, Mr. Bunnel? ” with Yes, sir.” 

In the frosty chills which coming Winter 
sent before it, there was now and then a 
bright, calm, clear day. Such an one was 
the day before Thanksgiving. Will had 
been all the afternoon in the old pasture-lot, 
helping his father mend the fence. Half an 
hour before sunset they had driven the last 
stake and put up the last rail. 

^^Well,” said father Rood, “it beats me 
to see how much two pairs of hands will 
do. You take to farmin’ right well, if I 
do say it.” 

“Perhaps that is what I was born for, 
after all,” said Will, rather gravely. 

The old man took down his coat from the 
top of a stake and slowly put it on. Then 
he looked up and down the line of fence 
they had put up — over at the crows, in the 
top of the naked hickory — across the sweep 













% * 


W 


I 


) C* /. 


intt 




HI . 


%) 


(i{^' 






t‘'m 


r 


-.v 




"» * .-•* 


K tr.'A 


i\ fiP 

i* . f • * 


.■ \. V 


n ' 


^ A 
t ^9 


f 

I l' 


' • 

i: i 


/ ’ » , 


. .?t> i- 


A V 

•• • * • • 




-% . 



* ^ 


»• 

» 

. ' . -tiW " ’ 

, ' ^ 

t 

;. / 'A^j' *^.; 



■'> 


. ; 'ir-, i 

■ ■- . - ' 


- V 

\C \ > v* 

'.Jl 0 ^ /■•<’ ' . 





I 


i 


I- r V •< 


- 1 - • 


„ 

f -j' -fy;y.- 


•«'»' 


I' 


■m.- 



LOOKING FOR A LETTER. 


201 


of brown, huckleberry-grown pastures, and 
said, 

“ I’m afraid that letter of yours will never 
come, my boy.” 

Will choked and turned his head away. 

Perhaps not,” he said, as soon as he 
could speak ; “ if it doesn’t come to-night, 
it seems to me that it will never come at all. 
If it could only come for Thanksgiving ! ” 

Father Rood buttoned his coat tight and 
shouldered his axe. 

“ It’s going to be a pretty keen night,” 
he said, surveying Will’s face with pity; 
“ come, you’ve been out in this cold too 
long. We’ll go up an’ get some of mother’s 
warm supper. She gets it pretty early the 
night afore Thanksgiving.” 

Why, I’ve to go to the office yet, yon 
know, father,” said Will, looking at the sun ; 
“ I’d better start at once.” 

“ 1 wouldn’t go to the office to-night, my 


202 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


son,” said the old man, unconsciously betray- 
ing his pity in his voice ; “ I’d let the letter 
stay or come as it likes.” 

But Will buttoned up his coat, resolutely, 
and set off over the cold fields. In spite of 
himself, the choking sensation would come 
in his throat. He began to doubt whether 
he had really seen how much he must en- 
dure if no letter came, — if Wayne never 
repented. Oh, how could he, how could he 
be so hard of heart ? 

His heart swelled within him as he walked 
briskly over the long, lonesome pasture lots. 
If to-night’s mail brought no letter, it 
seemed to him that the disappointment 
would be almost unbearable. Yet it was 
no more than he had borne every night for 
almost two weeks — yes, for just two weeks 
this very night. 

He paused by the old rail fence that ran 
between him and the road and watched the 


LOOKING FOR A LETTER. 


203 


sober twilight stealing over the brown 
woods and browner fields. It was only a 
little way further to the corner by this cut- 
off across the pastures. He knew that by 
this time old Mr. Bunnel had trimmed his 
lamps, put on his spectacles and begun the 
nightly task of puzzling out the addresses 
of the letters. Was there one for him? 

Whether there was one or not, he prayed 
that he might be strong and bear with 
patience. God only could help him bear 
this trouble. He sprang over the fence 
and hurried along the sombre way. The 
light of the little corner house and store 
twinkled just ahead. There was the usual 
crowd present at mail-time, — several farmers 
standing around the door with whips in 
their hands, the deacon’s Zebulon, half-a- 
dozen other farm-lads, and two o’* three 
women and children waiting for the stage- 
coach to take them up. Will went up to 


204 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


the square aperture through which the old 
post-master was visible, and went through 
with the usual A letter for me to-night, 
Mr. Bunnel?” barely repressing a quiver in 
his voice. 

Wait — seems to me — Yes, here’s a let- 
ter for sartin this time,” said the old man, 
holding the document up to the light where 
he could examine it. Been a long time 
a-comin’? Glad to see it here — right glad I 
I’ll wait on ye in a minnit. Mis’ Dill. Here’s 
your letter. Rood.” 

Will seized the thick, double-postaged let- 
ter, gave it a quick glance — flushing with 
pleasure as he recognized the handwriting — • 
then thrust it hastily into his pocket. It had 
come. 

Old Mr. Bunnel gave a little shrug of 
satisfaction as he looked on. Then out 
through the crowd Will went and into the 
dark flelds. The way home was long. 


LOOKING FOR A LETTER. 


205 


Through the silent woods, across the pas- 
tures, over the brook he bounded — thinking 
of nothing but the precious letter in his 
pocket — stopping for nothing, and pressing 
on that he might know all. 

He burst into the kitchen as mother Rood 
was coming out of the buttery with a 
chicken-pie. The effect was much the same 
as on the night of his sudden appearance 
in their midst. But Will did not stop to 
look. 

It’s come,” he cried, “ for Thanksgiving ! 
A light — quick I You don’t know how I’ve 
hurried I You don’t know how I feel.” 

Mother Rood, comprehending the situation, 
made haste to light another candle. 

“ Is it from Wayne — or who ? ” she asked, 
nervously trying to light a match at the 
wrong end. 

It is directed in Nina Shirwyn’s hand- 
writing,” said Will, with rather more color 


V. J.L rood’s friendship. 


2(;0 

in his face; who it will prove to be from, 
I can’t tell. Won’t the candle light? ” 

Bless me I ” said Mother Hood, I’ve 
been scratching the wrong end of the match 
all the time. There I — now it will go, I 
guess. Why, Will,” as the light shone in 
his face, “ I never saw you look so excited 
in my life.” 

Will sat down and tore open his letter. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Wayne’s confession. 

TT71THIN the envelope there were three 
* ^ separate letters, — one directed to Will 
Rood in Nina Shirwyn’s handwriting, a 
thick little packet across which Wayne’s 
Confession ” was written in the same clear, 
graceful hand, and another bearing the name 
of Will’s father. Will took up the first note 
with a quick-beating heart. Nina must 
know, now, that he was not a thief, he 
thought. And this he read : 

In the Library y 1 o'clock, evening. 
Dear Will, — Papa is so tired and ill to- 
night that I am going to be his amanuensis. 

He would like to write you with his own 
207 


208 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


hand, but as he really is not able, I have 
persuaded him to let me put upon paper 
what he has to say to you, hoping it will 
make no difference. To put you out of sus- 
pense, I will tell you at once that we know 
all — everything — and that your name is 
cleared. Wayne made a confession this 
morning to papa. It suems to me you can- 
not know how shocked we were. Mamma 
has not left her room since, and it was terri- 
ble to hear papa groan when he found how 
Wayne had fallen and how you had been 
wronged. And then it came when we were 
all so happy and hopeful ! Wayne is just 
recovering from a brain fever, which seized 
him the morning of the day after you left 
us, and we were so happy, thinking he was 
going to get well (the doctor thought he 
could never be any better at one time) and 
then came the dreadful story of what he 
had done ! 


Wayne’s confession. 


209 


It is very sad and lonesome here to-night. 
It seems to me that it can never be pleasant 
again. Papa groans when he thinks how 
you have been wronged, and says he can 
never, never forgive himself. If you knew 

how much dearer you had be But papa 

says he is ready, and I will let him say what 
he wishes to in his own words. 

^ My dear boy : 

I do not know how I can say all I wish 
to say to you in the limits of a letter. To 
begin with, if I have not wronged you too 
deeply, I want to be assured of your for- 
giveness for what I have done. Don’t judge 
me too harshly, I beg of you. I thought I 
was doing right, for I was certain that you 
had deceived us It was not in my heart to 
suspect Wayne — Oh, Will, how can you 
know what I suffer to find how he has 
fallen? Yet, when I remember how hero- 




210 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


ically you spared me the fearful truth when 
I was wronging you, 1 know that you are 
capable of realizing what a blow this is to 
us. 

^ My* dear boy, I am ashamed and humbled 
when I think of your generousness. I know 
we never deserved it at your hands. I 
wonder that you could suffer such a sacri- 
fice for us; and when I look back on that 
morning at the office, when I was condemn- 
ing you as a criminal, and see you deliber- 
ately taking upon yourself the guilt and 
shame, to save us and Wayne, I have no 
words to express my gratefulness and ap- 
preciation of the act. I don’t think any 
of us knew what a brave, quiet hero we 
had been cherishing. 

^ But how you will ever be repaid for all 
you have endured and suffered, I do not 
know. Perhaps you cannot forgive us — 
perhaps you can never look upon any of 


WAYNE’S CONFESSION. 


211 


Wayne’s family with anything but aversion ; 
still, when I remember all your goodness to 
us, I cannot but hope you will forgive, at 
least, those who were unwittingly led to 
suppose you guilty. As for Wayne, I can 
beg nothing for him at present. He shall 
tell his own story. 

^ Now, though I may be asking too much, 
I beg you, my dear boy, to come back to 
us. If it will give you too much pain I will 
not urge the matter ; but otherwise I entreat 
you to come. We have missed you every 
hour since you went away, we are longing 
to see you now. I would come to you but 
for present troubles at home, but since this 
cannot be, I entreat you to return to us as 
soon as you receive this. I will enclose a 
note to' your father and close, for no letter, 
however extended, can tell you what I wish 
to say. I must wait for that until I see 


212 WILL rood’s friendship. 

you face to face, which I hope will be at 
once. 

Arthur Shirwyn.’ 

I am surer than papa that you will for- 
give us, Will, and come back. Am I not 
right? If you knew how we all longed 
for you in this sad house, I am sure you 
would not hesitate a minute. Wayne is to 
wuite down his story with my help, and I 
think 1 shall keep this letter until it is ready, 
and send the whole at once. If you could 
see Wayne’s face you would pity him, if you 
could not forgive. He is certain that you 
will never return, and says, ^ I don’t ever 
hope to be forgiven.’ But. I am not so 
despairing. Won’t you come back to us? — 
Won’t you — for all our sakes ? I shall look 
for you. 

Nina.” 


At this point father Rood came in from 


Wayne’s confession. 


213 


doing his chores at the barn. Will looked 
up from his papers with a bright, flushed 
face. 

“ This is the letter that was never going 
to come/’ he said, and it holds something 
for you, too,” tossing over Mr. Shirwyn’s 
note. 

Then he took up Wayne’s confession. It 
was commenced in Wayne’s handwriting — 
at present rather rambling and irregular — 
and was without date or heading. There 
were tear-stains upon it. 

“ Father says I am to begin at the first 
trouble which^I fell into, and tell the whole. 
It is such a long story that, without Nina’s 
help, I don’t see how I can put it upon 
paper, and my hand trembles so that the 
words will be crooked and hard to read. 
When I left you at school in Way land and 
came home to study, some one made a great 


214 


WILL ROOD’S FRIENDSHIP. 


mistake. You know I wanted to stay with 
you, but they thought I should get on faster 
under a tutor. When I came home it was 
like stepping into a new world, — it was all 
so different from the quiet of school and 
what I had been used to. It was like get- 
ting out of prison. There was a sociable 
or a party almost every night,* and the boys 
were — well, you know what they were. 
We used to be out a great deal evenings. 
It seems to me now that there was hardly a 
night, except on Sunday, that we were not 
out till ten at least, and occasionally till after 
midnight. Father got anxious sometimes, 
but neither he nor mother knew all. He 
was very busy those days, and supposed 
that Blecker looked out for me. Blecker 
did look out for me, — but I could always 
wind him round my finger. 

I knew I was getting into a wrong way, 
but I followed on with the others. Some^ 


Wayne’s confession. 


215 


times I thought I would write to you about 
it — just as I used to tell you everything at 
school — but I suppose 1 liked the way I 
was in too well ever to do it. Things went 
on so pretty much all Summer. We didn’t 
do anything very bad — were only getting 
ready for what was to come, I suppose. I 
didn’t learn to chew nor smoke. I hated 
that as well as the swearing and vulgar talk 
of the others, — you will believe that of me, 
at least. But there was one thing I learned 
to like, as well as the others, to — to — ” 
How the writer had hesitated and bungled 
over the word I A great tear had fallen 
and stained it, — “to — to gamble a little* 
It was such a little, at first, that you would 
never have thought it could grow to what 
it did. We used to go a little oftener, as 
we got used to it, till by and by it took all 
my spending-money. 

“ I thought I would certainly break off 


216 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


then, but you know well enough how hard 
it is for me to break a habit. So it went 
on, until the night in which the work 
was done that brought me all my misery. 
Tommy Brewster had plenty of money that 
evening and bet very high. I followed him, 
for I had just got a quarter’s spending- 
money. The rest of the boys were left way 
behind and did not try to keep up with us. 
Somehow all of Tommy’s money kept com- 
ing to me, and I never was so successful 
in my life before. By and by, Bowring, who 
kept the saloon, came along and began to 
bet against me, but it was just the same — 
I won all. There was a great pile of bills 
at my elbow, hundreds of dollars it seemed 
to me, for my eyes burned, my hands 
trembled, and I was almost wild with ex- 
citement. Bowring grew angry, losing so 
much, — or pretended he did — and threw 
a small roll of bills on the ^ table, and said, 


Wayne’s confession. 


217 


with an oath, ^ That^s the last I’ll venture I 
I stake that against the same amount.’ 

^ Done,’ I cried, excitedly, without asking 
how much it was, or thinking it could 
possibly be more than the great thick pile 
of money at my elbow. 

“ It seemed to me I could win anything. 
But that time I lost. I suppose it turned 
just as Bowring expected. Then I told him 
I would stake again, but he said, ^ Hand 
over what you’ve lost, first.’ ^ How much 
is it ? ’ I said. 

It was just the amount which you saw 
upon the forged check. I should have fallen 
over if it hadn’t been for Tommy. I re- 
member as well as if it was only a moment 
ago how frightened the boys looked, and 
how sick and faint I felt. Then I told him 
that I could never pay it all in the world, — 
that when I played I thought it was not 
an eighth of the sum. ^But you might 


218 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


have known by asking/ he swore, ^ and as 
long as your father is good for it, it makes 
no particular difference.’ 

I told him that I had rather be shot on 
the spot than to have father hear of it, and 
then we had a stormy time which ended 
as it could not help but end : I fell into his 
power, and yielded to his demands to keep 
him from telling all to father. This was 
three or four months before you came to 
live with us. From that night till this I 
have never entered a gambling-hell — never 
desired to — never thought of it except with 
horror and loathing. That cured me. I 
stayed at home nights, saw none of the boys 
I had been with, and tried to live for father 
' and mother, and the rest, as I ought. But 
the sin had been committed. I could not 
do away with that. You, with your good, 
upright heart, can’t know what I suffered 
with fear and shame and remorse. You 


WAYNE’S CONFESSION. 


219 


can’t pity me, for you never did anything 
to trouble your conscience long. I see now 
that if I had gone to father at once and 
been forgiven, and helped up from where I 
had fallen, that all this dreadful trouble 
would not have come. But I was too proud 
for that. When we talked of sending for 
you I was glad and hopeful, for I thought 
I should tell you everything at once and 
you would help me. But I never got the 
courage, though you gave me opportunities 
enough. 

I suppose you can see plain enough 
now what has troubled me all Summer. 
That sin has been like some hidden reptile, 
gnawing and gnawing at my peace and com- 
fort every minute. It took away all desire 
to enjoy myself with the rest of you. I 
wanted to be alone. It took all my spend- 
ing-money to pay the interest upon the sum 
I lost, and to bribe Bowring into silence. 


220 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Sometimes he was overbearing and insulting, 
and then I would go home in a rage, re- 
solved to tell you everything. You will 
never know how many times I have rushed 
up to you with the words trembling on my 
lips. 

“ By and by my tormentor wanted more 
for his silence, and I was forced to sell the 
silver vases and the marble head, and all 
the little trinkets and presents that had 
been given me. Though you was with me 
so much and knew me so well, you will 
never know how much I suffered. You 
can’t, for I was obliged to conceal so much 
with fun and pleasure. God knows how I 
repented of the sin again and again and 
again, and how it eat up all my pleasure, till 
I had nothing left. He sees how I have suf- 
fered for that night’s wickedness. 

Then came the climax — when we met 
Bowring one evening on the sidewalk, or 


Wayne’s confession. 


221 


rather when he overtook us. He told me 
then that unless 1 paid in the whole amount 
before another sundown) he would lay. the 
whole story before father without delay. I 
begged and entreated, but he had no more 
pity than a fiend. And he was the Evil 
One to me, for I should never have thought 
of the forged check but for him. I should 
have gone home and confessed all to father, 
because I should known no other way. But 
he said, ^ You can draw any amount, the 
check will go in with dozens of others, and 
no one will ever suspect.’ You know the 
rest.” 

Wayne had evidently intended to leave 
his confession thus ; but a little way further 
on he had taken up the pen and written : I 
do not try to excuse my last act. I knew 
that if the forging was detected the guilt 
would fall on you, — still I hoped, and even 
prayed, that no harm might ever come to 


222 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


you. When the deed was exposed, *1 might 
have cleared your name at once, but it was 
only till morning that I got courage to re- 
solve to confess my guilt, and then the fever 
came. I don’t expect nor ask you to pity 
me. I know that I don’t deserve it. But 
though I never see you nor hear from you 
again, I shall always thank you and love you 
as long as I live, for. all you have done for 
me. 

Wayne Shirwyn.” 

Nina’s hand had secretly added : Wayne 
is very much exhausted, writing so much. 
The tears fell so thick when he wrote those 
last lines that I’ve had a hard time getting 
them to look presentable. Will you refuse 
to come back to us ? ” 


CHAPTER XY. 

THANKSGIVING. 

rpHE little kitchen was very still, the 
farmer and his wife sitting with grave, 
thankful faces — Mr. Shirwyn’s note open 
before them — and Will, with shining eyes, 
folding up his letters. The clock seized the 
opportunity, as all clocks will, to tick very 
noisily. 

By and by father Rood cleared his throat 
with a great ahem, and said, 

“ Well, your faith was greater than mine 
this time. I’d no idea you’d ever get your 
name cleared. Shirwyn seems to be sorry 
enough — can’t say too much ’bout the 
223 


224 WILL rood’s friendship. 

matter. But he don’t tell who the guilty 
one was ; speaks as if you’d told us already.” 

Then,” said Will, I would rather never 
tell. I think he is sorry enough for it. I 
think he is ready to begin a better life, and 
I would like him to begin it with the knowl- 
edge that he has not got to struggle against 
the scorn or coldness of any one.” 

Well,” said the farmer, after a pause, 
let it rest there then. If you can forgive 
him I’m sartin we can. It seems to me that 
he must be worth somethin’ to undergo so 
much for, though.” 

^^And shall you go back?” said mother 
Rood, wiping her eyes. 

Yes — I think so ; they want me to come 
at once.” 

But you won’t go till after Thanksgiv- 
ing?” said Mrs. Rood, taking alarm instantly; 
you won’t leave us to-morrow to eat our 


dinner all alone ? ” 


THANKSGIVING. 


225 


Oh, no/’ said Will, I couldn’t think of 
doing that I But I can go the day after, 
perhaps. That will be Saturday, and I’ll 
speak to Mr. Thaddeus to-morrow to have 
him save me a seat.” 

“Well, well,” said mother Kood, bethink- 
ing herself, “ here we’re sitting, and supper’s 
been on the table and tea a-drawin’ an hour. 
Don’t let’s wait any longer for pity’s sake. 
Come father and Will, I want that chicken- 
pie cut.” 

Will was too happy to talk much that 
evening. He went up to his room early, 
to re-read his precious letters. The sadness 
and almost hopelessness of Wayne’s confes-^^ 
sion touched him exceedingly. Was it right 
to cast Wayne off — throw him” away as 
something worthless — because of his sin ? 
He knew Wayne’s heart as well — perhaps 
better than any one else. He knew what 
pure and good and noble things there were 


226 


WILL ROOD’S FRIENDSHIP. 


in it, and what it was possible for Wayne 
to become. How could he think of casting 
him off? Happy and light-hearted he went 
to bed. God had remembered him. He had 
heard his prayer and here was the answer 
to it. 

The next day was truly one of thanks- 
giving. The shadow which had hung 
over them had yielded place to sunshine. 
Never had the world or the brown country- 
side looked fairer to Will, than when they 
trundled down to church to hear Parson 
Hubbard’s Thanksgiving sermon, coming 
home in the still, clear noon of the Novem- 
^ber day. Then Mabel and he rambled over 
some of the old walks on the farm, coming 
home to find the turkey and cranberry sauce 
waiting in the midst of a great array of 
wonderful dishes. 

It was not very strange that father Rood’s 
voice trembled a little when he asked the 


THANKSGIVING. 


227 


blessing — thinking of all God had given 
them to be thankful for. The rest of the 
day passed away quickly — even too quickly 
for Will, who was somewhat impatient to 
return to the city. 

The morrow was one of those dull-hued 
days which November brings — the sky 
stretching away gray and leaden over the 
faded fields, the leafiess woods and bare, 
cold curves of hill and mountain. But it 
was all bright enough to Will as he took the 
stage-coach — on the outside, this time, thus 
causing a change in Mr. Thaddeus^s convic- 
tions — and bade father and mother and Mab 
good-by. ^ 

How different everything looked to him 
now, than when he came sorrowfully home 
in the twilight. Mr. Thaddeus thought him 
a very sociable fellow, and wondered how he 
could have made such a mistake. 

Right glad to see ye in such good 


228 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


spirits,” he said, cracking his whip very 
loud as they rolled through the village ; 

thought ye acted a little dumpish the night 
ye came home. Got rested up here on the 
hills, haint ye ? How do you like your busi- 
ness down there ? Somebody said you’d 
helped the old folks along a good deal the 
last Summer. Glad on’t? Seein’ Burling- 
wood haint got but one representative in 
the city, it’s best to send a pretty good one. 
Reckon we’ve hit on the right one, hay ? ” 
Mr. Thaddeus might be pretty good com- 
pany, but Will was not sorry to part with 
him at Sandplain, where he found the dwarf 
sitting in a warm angle of the depot with 
his oranges and peanuts. If this morsel 
of a man was not gratified by a great requi- 
sition upon his stores, it certainly was not 
Will’s fault. He felt, in the overflow of his 
joy and gratitude, as if he wanted to make 
every unfortunate happy too. 


THANKSGIVING. 


229 


The day grew grayer and more leaden as 
it advanced, and threatened snow. Twilight 
came on early, and lamps were glimmering 
through the depot when the train arrived in 
the city. There was no gay, light-hearted 
Wayne to meet him this time, but Will, full 
of delight and expectation, thought only 
of how he was going to cheer up and com- 
fort that sad heart up in the city. Would 
not Wayne be surprised ? 

He stepped into the swift tide of the 
street, wondering whether, after all, this was 
not quite as much home to him as the quiet 
country. It seemed so, now. Here were 
the clerks and shop-girls, the merchants, the 
tired people who had been shut up all day, 
hurrying to their homes and suppers — just 
such a crowd as he was used to every night. 
The stir and bustle seemed pleasant to him. 

He hoped to see Mr. Shirwyn before meet- 
ing the other members of the family, and 


230 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


with a faint hope that he might still find him 
at the office, hurried thitherward. His brisk 
walking soon brought him into the familiar 
street. They were just lighting the gas 
in the salesroom, which presented the usual 
half-empty appearance of such rooms at 
dusk. How familiar it all looked ! — how 
pleasant I He walked slowly through to the 
office, and entering found it dark and de- 
serted, save a small boy who was mending 
the fire. 

Where is Mr. Shirwyn ? ” Will asked. 

Before the boy could reply, the door of 
the inner office opened and out came — 
Barstow. It was too dark for him to see 
who had entered, but having heard a voice 
he turned on the gas. 

Bless my eyes!” he exclaimed, — they 
were certainly too sharp to need any im- 
provement, — and wrung Will’s hand as if 
delighted. Will did not quite understand 
this — from Barstow. 


THANKSGIVING. 


231 


“So you’re glad to see me — you know — ” 
lie began. 

Barstow gave a quick shrug and stamped 
with his foot. 

“ Look at me,” said he, “ and see if you 
don’t think I knew all from the first 1 My 
stars — yes ! I saw through you — like a 
book. Didn’t I tell you there’d be trouble ? 
Why didn’t you take my advice and get that 
trouble off young Shirwyn’s conscience when 
1 told you ? Know all ? — bah I I hope you 
don’t think I’m a fool. Rood ! ” 

“ You knew who was really guilty ? ” . 

“ To be sure — from the first I Do you 
suppose I didn’t see what you was? I 
thought you’d clear yourself at once when 
1 sent you in to Shirwyn, — rather stumped 
me to find you didn’t. ^ What’s up now ? ’ 
says I. Then pretty quick I saw’ right 
through it all and my stars ! — ‘ Well, it’ll do 
’em both good,’ says I ; Met it run its course.’ 


232 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


But it got to running a little too far. 
Thought young Shirwyn would die and 
never clear you up, and got anxious. It was 
about time for me to be saying something, I 
thought. If it hadn’t all come out just as it 
did, I couldn’t have held in any longer. 
Glad to see you — glad, glad ! Country’s 
done you good. Fine thing — the country. 
Wish I could get time to go myself.” 

“ And Mr. Shirwyn — has he gone home ? ” 
said Will. 

No — rather think not. Was out in the 
packing-room a little while ago. Wait, — 
you just step into the private office and I’ll* 
go and -see. I’ll send him in if he hasn’t 
gone.” 

Will stepped into the private office, where 
there was a bright light burning, and sat 
down at his old place. He had a vivid recol- 
lection of the last time he looked upon its 
four walls. What a change there had been I 


THANKSGIVING. 


233 


And Barstow had really known all the time 
who was innocent and who was guilty. 
Well, he would not have judged the old man 
so lenient and friendly. There was more in 
people^s hearts than one could fathom at 
once. 

Pretty soon there came steps and voices 
without, the door opened and Mr. Shirwyn 
entered. Will turned from his seat with a 
flushed, eager face, and some one caught 
both his hands between their own and held 
him a little off, looking steadfastly at him 
with a face full of emotion. Not a word was 
said for two or three minutes. Then Will 
found voice to ask. 

How is Wayne ? ” 

Mr. Shirwyn turned away his head. This 
the first question from the one who had 
been wronged ! When he could speak, he 
said, 

“ Wayne is better — improving. And you 


234 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


— you have come back to us I There was 
nothing for Will to say, and for a few min- 
utes Mr. Shirwyn seemed not to have control 
of his tongue. But with an effort he 
wheeled his big chair around beside Will’s 
and looking at him earnestly,, said, — My 
dear boy, I take this as a sign that you have 
forgiven us and come back to brighten our 
sad house. If it is so, I have no words to 
thank you. I can only tell you that you 
have put us all under eternal obligations, — 
a debt of love and gratitude which our life- 
time cannot pay. There is no use in saying 
more, for words lose their value sometimes, 
but I want you to know — ” here he laid his 
hand upon Will’s shoulder — that you hold 
place in my heart — in all our hearts — with 
Wayne, and that your life and happiness are 
just as dear to us as our own and shall be 
forever. God sees that I speak the truth.” 

It was sometime before Mr. Shirwyn could 


THANKSGIVING. 


235 


talk freely. Then Will saw what heavy 
lines of care had come in his face since last 
they saw one another, and realized better 
than ever before what the man’s proud, 
^ sensitive nature had had to endure. There 
was no sternness left in it ; it was sorrowful 
and humble. 

He said, in talking of Will’s departure, 
“ I told you then that I should keep the 
whole matter a secret, and I have since had 
reason to thank God again and again that I 
did so. Wayne’s transgression is also un- 
known among his friends here, — it has been 
a dead secret with us.” 

And with me, too,” said Will so that 
he can start again with no spot upon his 
name in other people’s eyes.” 

Mr. Shirwyn looked unutterably grateful. 

“ And your folks,” he said ; “ what did they 
say to his fall and your wrong ? ” 

They do not know he has fallen,” said 
Will. 


236 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


Not know! — -How did you clear your 
name to them ? 

They trusted in me/^ said Will, simply. 

Mr. Shirwyn was silent. Of what use 
were words ? 

By and by Will asked, Can Wayne sit 
up, talk, or can he walk and stir around 
some ? 

^^Oh, yes, he sits up some, but doesn’t 
walk much. He’s doing pretty well now. 
What will he say to you ? He has not had 
the slightest hope that you would return or 
forgive him. He says he does not deserve 
it. That is one consolation, — I know he is 
really penitent, and has no desire to repeat 
his evil-doing. When I think of this I am 
hopeful for him. But how the time is fly- 
ing 1 — they will be waiting supper for us. 
What a surprise I have got for them to- 
night I Yet 1 must go back to the packing- 
room a minute — I left some orders there — 
,then we will go home without delay.” 


THANKSGIVING. 


237 


Mr. Shirwyn hurried out. Hardly had the 
door closed behind him when Barstow put 
in his head. ’ 

Ah — you’re here yet ” — coming in j 
“well, I suppose it’s straight now — your 
accounts and Mr. Shirwyn’s. Glad of it I 
Knew ’twould come so.” 

He began putting on his overcoat, pre- 
paratory to going to supper. 

“Now you tell Wayne for me ” — twisting 
his arms into his coat sleeves — “ that old 
Barstow — that’s what he calls me — Ah ! — 
just help me with that sleeve, if you will — 
I’m stiff in that shoulder ! — tell him that 
old Barstow says, lay by the old ledger and 
get a new one, and see if he can’t keep it 
free from blots and stains and bad reckon- 
ing. Then he’ll know just where he stands ! 
Tell him that from me, will you ? He’ll take 
it well, for we understand each other. Wait- 
ing for Mr. Shirwyn? Well, my supper’s 


238 


WILL KOOD’S friendship. 


waiting for me, and Idl go on. Glad to see 
you back in the office as soon as you’re 
ready. Good night.” 

Mr. Shirwyn returned and began hastily 
to put on overcoat and gloves. 

“ I don’t know what the folks at home will 
say or do, when they see you,” he said, for 
we despaired so of your return, — all but 
Nina; she would never believe you guilty, 
and has been all the while certain of your 
return.” 

“ Has she ? ” said Will, a great flush of 
pleasure overspreading his face, while his 
eyes were just a trifle downcast. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Shirwyn, putting on his 
hat, “ and she has proved a good prophet. 
Come, now we will go.” 

They went out through the store into the 
noisy, brilliant street. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


TAKING HOPE. 


ILL’S thoughts, as he walked up the 



* * street beside Mr. Shirwyn, were in 
strong contrast to his emotions when leaving 
the city a little more than two weeks before. 
God had remembered him, his honor was 
unsullied, the way lay bright before him. It 
seemed to him that there was no comfort left 
to desire. 

^^This seems right and natural,” said Mr. 
Shirwyn, “ to have you walking home to tea 
with me. I missed you at' night more than 
any other time. Ah — here comes our car, 
now ; I thought we were too late for it.” 


239 


240 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


It was mostly a silent ride. Will was 
thinking of the meeting which was presently 
to take place, and had no thoughts for any- 
thing else, until, as they came up into the 
quieter part of the city, familiar windows 
beamed out upon the street, and he caught 
glimpses, through the lace and muslin, of 
familiar faces. 

He wondered whether poor Sam Tryon 
was still able to be moved in his arm-chair 
into the sunshine of the piazza. One of the 
most vivid of his recollections of that sad 
morning, when he left the city, was of 
seeing Sam sitting in the sunniest angle of 
the great villa, nodding and smiling good 
morning as he passed. 

But now — just ahead — was home. His 
heart beat fast as he looked. The car 
stopped — they were on the pavement, 
through the gate, and going up the walk. 
The brilliant light from the parlors streamed 
out upon them. 


TAKING HOPE. 


241 


Hearing the well-known footsteps on the 
walk, Nina came to the door to meet her 
father. The. warm, broad light fell down 
upon her from the hall chandelier as, stand- 
ing on tiptoe to reach her father's face, she 
welcomed him, unconscious of the youth 
who looked on: with a warm throbbing in his 
heart. Mr. Shirwyn retained his hold of 
Nina, and deftly put her behind him. ' 

“ Perhaps you will find some one else to 
welcome," he said, turning his back upon 
them. 

For a moment there was a silence, then 
Mr. Shirwyn thought *he heard something 
that sounded like — like — well, like a kiss. 
He was not certain, and when he turned to 
look around, Nina stood motionless, with a 
face in which the warm, bright color was 
coming and going, and which shone with joy 
and delight. 

My dear," said the father, with a slight 


242 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


smile, I thought you would have a word or 
two of welcome for him.” 

“I do — I have I ” said Nina, quickly — 
only I can^t say them.” 

The ready tears filled her eyes and 
she half-averted her head. But the comer 
thought his welcome a delightful one, and 
could ask for nothing more. 

* Mother Bunch, ever on the alert for any- 
thing unusual, here peeped through the 
crack of the dining-room door. 

0-o-oh-h ! ” said she, jumping up and 
down excitedly, what do you think I see, 
mamma ? Here^s Will 1 Here’s Will ! ” 

She burst out like a little whirlwind and 
got hold both his hands. 

Oh, you dear, big boy,” she said, caress- 
ingly, “ ain’t you good to come back ? Take 
me up ! — take me up so I can kiss you I 
Oh, you’re the” — kiss, kiss — ‘^gooderest boy 
I” — kiss, kiss — “ ever see. Wa’n’t Wayne 


TAKING HOPE. 


243 


naughty to you ? — and didn’t you have to 
go way off home, you poor Will” — tears 
and kisses together — “ till Wayne got 
sorry ? Oh, I could kiss you ’most to 
death I ” • 

“ I wouldn’t, Mother, because there’s some 
one else waiting to welcome him,” said Mr. 
Shirwyn, taking the little girl in his own 
arms. 

Will turned and met Mrs. Shirwyn. 

“ My dear Will,” she exclaimed, her sur- 
prise written upon her face, ^^how can I 
believe my own eyes? You have come 
back to us ! ” 

“Why,” said Will, with a bright face, 
“ how did you think I could ever stay 
away ? ” 

The lady whom he had once thought so 
grand and stately, seemed kind and tender 
as a mother now, as she embraced him, 
whispering. 


244 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


“ Can you ever, ever forgive Wayne ? 

Will pressed her hand assuringly. Then 
came an awkward silence of a minute, all 
thinking of Wayne. Mr. Shirwyn broke it 
by leading the way into the cheerful supper- 
room, where Wayne lay upon the sofa. He • 
lay so white and still, so changed and hag- 
gard, that Will gave a little start of alarm. 
What punishment he had endured ! 

The family turned their faces away, as 
Will went up to the sofa and bent over his 
friend, — all but Mother Bunch, whose in- 
quisitiveness was not to be baffled. There 
was a long, unbroken silence. Then Mother 
Bunch, who had been making investigations, 
cried out in a sort of terrified amazement. 
Why, mamma, Wayne^ is crying ! — so is* 
Will I Isn’t it naughty to cry when we are 
all so glad? — and won’t you make them 
stop, papa ? ” 

Hush ! ” said Nina, drawing Mother 
Bunch away. 


t 


TAKING HOPE. 


245 


“ And Nina^s mos’ ready to cry/’ said the 
elderly little lady, for her eyes shine, and 
she’s winkin’ like everything.” 

Nina’s hand went over Mother Bunch’s 
mouth to prevent further revelations, but 
the shrewd little miss discovered that papa 
and mamma were troubled about the eyes in 
the same manner, and was silent for wonder. 
Mr. Shirwyn went up to the sofa at last. 

Wayne,” he said, with emotion, “ I think 
you can. spare your friend long enough for 
him to drink tea with us. You remember he 
has had a long ride and is tired. There is a 
long evening before you.” 

Wayne withdrew his hand from Will’s, and 
made a motion for him to go. They sat 
down at the tea-table, very quietly and ten- 
derly happy. True, Wayne’s chair was 
empty, but he lay on the sofa with his eyes 
* on Will, and his face looking brighter than it 
had done for many a day, for hope shone in 
it. 


246 


WIL'L rood’s friendship. 


Perhaps you are thinking that Wayne 
Shirwyn was too weak and selfish, that he 
had wronged too deeply to merit such for- 
giveness as Will Rood gave him. Who 
merits forgiveness? It is the need of all, 
and we receive it of God through our peni- 
tence ; so he, who, through the goodness and 
humility of his heart, can forgive his injurer, 
becomes more like Him whose heart is love. 
One may live a life-time, unforgiving and 
unforgetting, to find at the end that God 
does not forget, and that with His love he 
metes out justice. 

Will was too joyful to care much for 
supper. He did not notice or remember the 
contrast between the board at which he sat, 
and the plain one at home. The shine of 
the silver, the fiash of the crystal, the fra- 
grance of Mrs. Shirwyn’s cups of tea, were 
all obscured from his senses by the remem- 
brance of that sad, wasted face upon the 


TAKING HOPE. 


247 


sofa. How he was going to cheer it! — 
What courage and hope he was going to put 
into Wayne’s heart I He wanted to finish 
supper that he might commence the under- 
taking. 

But the chairs were pushed away in good 
season, the tea-things cleared from the table, 
and instead of going to the parlors as usual, 
inclination settled them around and by 
Wayne. Will seated himself on the sofa, 
Nina sat at its head, and the rest a little way 
ofi*. Then came a long, happy evening, full 
of pleasant talk, of mutual explanation, of 
deep and earnest rejoicing. 

<‘It seems to me,” said Wayne, speaking 
for the first time, 'Hike a long, dreadful 
dream, in which I went to sleep when you 
went away, and woke up when you came 
back.” 

Wayne’s face looked bright and eager, 
as if he had awakened from a dream of 


248 


WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


despair to find it unreal. Nina put her face 
down beside his to hide her happy tears. 

Why, you dear girl,” said he, caressing 
her brown head with his free hand, what 
do you cry for ? If anybody is to cry, it 
ought to be Will.” 

« Why ? ” said Will j if I’m to cry, I want 
to know what it is for.” 

“ Nobody’s going to cry any more,” said 
Mother Bunch, from the ottoman at her 
mother’s feet ; “ father said so.” 

“ Why,” said Wayne, in answer to Will’s 
question, “you’ve come back to live with 
us — to live with me. If any one mourns 
it is you* who should do it. You’ve got 
reason enough for it ! ” 

“ I don’t think so.” 

“ I do,” sadly ; “ what is the use of one 
person’s doing so much for another as to 
take all the comfort out of living?” 

“There,” said Will, “I shall answer no such 


TAKING HOPE. 


249 


questions. If you know of anybody around 
you that’s so bad off they can’t get any com- 
fort out of living, I don’t. I like to live, 
myself.” 

So do I,” said Mother Bunch, who was 
gravely looking and listening ; don’t like 
to die and be shut up in a trunk.” 

Will laughed. 

“ There’s testimony in my favor,” he said. 

“ Now to-morrow, in the warmest part of the 
day, we will have the carriage out and go 
down and see Sam Tryon and some of the 
other boys. That will do you good.” 

But Wayne shrank and shivered at first, 
forgetting, for the moment, that the cause of 
the old fear and dread was gone forever. 
When he remembered, and realized how his 
fall was a secret known only to God and 
these faithful friends, he lay quiet with grati- 
tude. God and the rest were too good to * 
him, he thought. 


250 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


Yes/’ said Will, it will do us both good 
to see Sam, and I’ve got a great parcel of 
oranges to give him. I don’t suppose 
they’re one quarter as nice as those he haves 
every day, but I’m going to tell him of the 
cripple — t^e morsel of a man — that I 
bought them of. Sam has a fellow-feeling 
for deformed people.” 

“ You’re the same Will Kood as ever,” 
said Wayne, looking at him as if somewhat 
surprised that it could be so, and you don’t 
know what a comfort it is to me. It is as if 
I had got hold of something strong that was 
going to pull me up.” 

Will was always a magician,” said Nina. 
^‘I know just what his effect will be on 
Wayne, as if all had taken place, now.” 

She looked her thanks and gratefulness 
over Wayne’s head at Will. 

Mrs. Shirwyn looked at her watch and 
reminded her husband that it was after nine. 


TAKING HOPE. 


251 


Ah — indeed/’ said he, how can it be 
so late ? I’m sorry to end our evening, but 
the doctor desires Wayne to retire early at 
present. You’ve rather over-sat your hour 
to-night, my son. I had better call Blecker 
at once.” 

“ I’ll take Blecker’s place,” said Will, 
quietly ; I would rather — so would Wayne, 
I guess. My shoulder is stout enough for 
us both.” 

“ And your heart, too/’ thought Mrs. Shir- 
wyn. 

Mother Bunch came up to kiss them good 
night, the others drew near. Mrs. Shirwyn 
kissed him as fervently as if she had been 
his own mother, and Mr. Shirwyn said. 

To-morrow we will begin a brighter and 
happier life, and pray God to keep us from 
bringing anything wicked or impure into it. 
Good night, my boys.” 

And Nina? Nina held out her hand to 


252 


^ WILL ROOD^S FRIENDSHIP. 


him and said good night with more in her 
face and eyes than could have been put into 
words. 

Well, said Wayne, humbly, as they slow- 
ly ascended the stairs, I don’t know but I 
shall always have to lean upon you. I don’t 
feel as if I was ever going to be strong 
enough to go alone — in some things.” 

‘^That is better than to be too sure of 
your strength,” said Will, brightly ; we’ll 
see about your going alone by and by ! 

Blecker’s hand had made the room bright 
and cheery. A flameless bed of coal shone 
in the grate, the gas was burning and the 
curtains drawn. Will’s quick eyes took in 
the fact that the silver vases had come back 
to their place upon the shelf, and that the 
lovely marble head, tinted by the fire-glow, 
was looking down over its shoulder. Wayne 
sat down on foot the of the bed to rest, while 
Will, with a delightful consciousness of the 


TAKING HOPE. 


253 


cosiness and charm of everything, busied 
himself about him. But Wayne, lost, for the 
time, to the present, and with little pleasure 
to look back upon, turned his eyes toward 
the future. What was there in it for him ? 

Ah,'^ said he, to Will, do you think 
that sometime — in the future, perhaps — 
I may become strong of heart, as I ought to 
be?'' 

Yes," said his friend, “ with God's help 
and all our help." 

Yes," said Wayne, fervently, I shall 
have you to be always nearer than a broth- 
er ! Sometime, you know," he added, with 
something like a smile, you may really be 
my brother " — thinking of Nina — “ though 
that can't make you any dearer than you are 
now." 

This prophecy, though it has nothing to 
do with my story, may very likely come 
true. 


254 


WILL rood’s friendship. 


“Well,” said Wayne, rising up till he stood 
straight and erect, “ when I think of all the 
past, and the future that may be, I am 
almost light-hearted to think what a brave, 
pure, noble life, with God’s help, I may 
make my own ; and now that I have learned 
to ask His help, I will try to make it such. 
I mean it. Will, and the feeling that I will do 
this is down deep in my heart.” 

Will thought he had never looked nobler 
or manlier than while saying these words; 
and the years, whidh try all our good re- 
solves, proved Wayne’s to be deep-rooted 

and not able to be overthrown. The much- 
'll. 

desired strong and pure heart was his. 


Valuable Books for the Young*, 

PUBLISHED BY 

OR-A.-VES Sc -^OTTIsra-^ 

24 CoRNHiLL, Boston. • 

T&e BrooksMe Series. 

BY AUNT HATTIE. 


4 volumes, 16mo. Handsomely illustrated. Price $5.00. 

Vol. I. Hole in the Pocket. 

“ 2. Stopping the Leak. 

“ 3. Lost, but Found. 

“ 4. Fashion and Folly. 

The above series are intensely interesting to 
both old and young, and are especially adapted 
to the wants of the present day. 



GRAVES AND TOtTNG, 

24 Cornhill^ Boston. 


I 



PUBLISHED BY 


ORA.VES A.]VI> YOTJ]VO, 

* 24 CoRNHiLL, Boston. 

THE ELMWOOD STORIES. 

4 vols., 16mo. Handsomely illustrated. Price $5.00. 

Yol. 1. Mill Ai^ent. 

Out of* Erisou. 

** 3- Horace TTelfbrcl. 

4. The Hu.utiug’doiis. 

THE YOUNa MAN’S FRIEND. 

New Series. By Rev. D. C. Eddy, D. D. 

1 vol., 12mo. Price $1.60. 

This book is especially adapted as a gift book to young 
men, as it will prove itself a faithful counsellor and 
friend. 


ChUArvrES J^ISHD YOUNG-, 



24r Cornliill, Boston, 








• « » ’ ^0 * • 1 1 • 
v^. »,OT\'^; 



0^1 



*b i^- « ' 






V ♦ 

i 9 vs ► • A * 

.’•o^ V V^ ^ aO^ ''’“ 

« '#^* .‘«*si&fc*. V -v^* /u'o ^ 



O -V^ 6 

; -o/ 

0 0 *^ * 




- - 


A. 4 

•'o • A ^ 

'U- 0^ .‘j^^^’- v^ 

■ V 



^^°-«. * 


^ • » O «0 *' t ty* aV o » 

^ aO^ '‘I*®- ^^ **••'■* 



■\^/ ♦' 
vf> ^ 


4 * ^ • 


o • A 




'^-4 ® 

/ 4^ % ®. 


A^ C ® “ ® ♦ 

-V ' 

^o V : 








•. ^< 0 ? vA 

♦ N' _ ♦ 

*4^^ ^'‘.'t:’' .0^ • 


/ j>’'% \ 





* aV-^ - 

O C » " • , ' o^"* • ‘ 

•r ^ ‘ 

^ O % r»vVA\\T\'^ «» V 

'»bv^ 


o*k* A ' 4 ^. .(p’ 



rv 





a * ^ o • * * 



9 c,<A * 

•^-0^ .w. 


iK 



* ‘-‘-^ '‘ % 4P^'' .<•»/%*"’ ‘ ’ 

: 




;* -iy 

• * '* ^ 

I 




<► 

: 0* ; 

>' «5 : 

♦* O V 

t.o. " 






5'^, 


O 
M 

4* 

.0^ .-‘J/. •^o, 

^-^0^ o 






c® 


1*^ • 



,*«*a'. ^ v' .'V'. 

IE‘5^ •* ^f*C> n o ♦ SH® * < 




‘ \ 

• •^^>..4^ <*i(s^:- ^'j'^ / 


4 i 


Am O 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



